Dangerous Game
by Hurlbat
Summary: Having been exposed to "Twilight" by my wife, I struggled with Meyer's particular vampire mythos. With no real weaknesses, they are boring as protagonists. But, as antagonists, they provide an interesting problem for a human hunter. Here's how I'd do it.
1. Lawrence, KS

**Dangerous Game**

It's 1:00 in the morning and the rain has stopped, at least. That nasty, late July drizzle that is sticky-hot and chilling all at the same time had been going for hours. It makes my gear even more uncomfortable than usual, and my joints ache. The moon is still shrouded in clouds, but the orange glow of low-pressure sodium street lamps illuminating the parking lot provide plenty of light outside; even if does alter colors into a ghastly bile-hued caricature of reality. That suits me just fine. At least I won't have to wear those bulky night-vision goggles this time, and at this point reality has become a very subjective concept to me anyway. The gray cinder-block building in front of me has no windows, and while you can't quite make out the music coming from inside, the incessant thumping of the base manages to make its way into the humid July evening. Besides, it seems appropriate enough. Between the carelessly scrawled graffiti and the garish, neo-punk signage, this nightclub appeared the freakish love child of Studio 54 and CBGB; a modern testament to unoriginal identity crisis.

Goddamn I'm getting old. Everything pisses me off these days. I'm sweaty, cramping, and uncomfortable. My knees hurt, my back hurts and I am aggravated. This type of crap was a lot easier when I was younger, that's for sure. The heat and humidity are pervasive, made all the worse by the gear I'm wearing. This hunt has gone on for 3 days now and I am damned tired. But I must stay sharp, focused for a while yet; for my prey tonight is dangerous, and crafty.

Fortunately, they aren't hard to spot.

You would think that after millions of years of evolution, they would have developed better camouflage. They are always so pretty, with soft, alabaster skin, classic features and open faces. They stick out like a movie star at a high school pep rally. They are tall, lean and graceful. Every movement they make looks choreographed. You want to approach them, talk to them, and touch them. They look good, they sound good, and they smell good. They move like gazelles in a sea of wildebeest. Alongside of them, we look like short, misshapen trolls, shuffling ataxically at the feet of these radiant gods. My research indicates that this may be a pheromone reaction augmented by low-level telepathic suggestion. They aren't actually that much more striking or beautiful, but when in their presence they APPEAR to be. This is why they are never models or actors, or even photographed all that much. Without the pheromones and suggestion, they aren't that remarkable.

I have watched this one for 3 days. He is crafty, but young for his kind. He is enjoying himself too much and that has put him on my radar. He likes it here, and so he has stayed too long, and developed patterns. Patterns are deadly to predator and prey alike. The police think they have a serial killer, for six women have disappeared from this area in the last 3 months. What that tells me is that he is feeding every two weeks or so, which is fairly frequent if you are going to set up a permanent residence. Very sloppy, boy.

There must have been others like me at some point, because the older ones are more careful. They are subtle, and cagey. The old ones must have some collective memory of being prey to _something_, because they put much more effort into staying off the grid. These younger ones don't seem to have any fear at all, and think of themselves as untouchable; which I guess they are. I do suspect that word has been getting around though. After Vancouver and San Francisco, there must have been talk; and I _have_ noticed they are moving more in groups than they used to. I haven't tried to take down a group yet, I'm not sure how I would do it. At this point I am still not sure how they communicate, or what level of networking they employ for spreading information. It's probably the damned internet. How they keep in touch notwithstanding, I have been at this for five years now, and Vancouver was very ugly. I don't think I am a secret anymore.

Of course, most of them are not particularly concerned with being hunted themselves. The thought of something stalking them must be hard to imagine, for they are acutely aware of their advantages and superiority. They are far more preoccupied with attracting prey than they are with avoiding predation; that is a fact. I shouldn't complain though, it is this arrogance that has kept me going. Without it, they would have found me and killed me years ago. Oh, that conceit! I bet it makes them think of me as something huge and frightening, like I am some horrific unknown spectre that exists solely to torment them. I _must_ be some kind of rough infernal beast to them, because the thought of what I can do would be too much for them to bear if they knew what I really was: food.

As a species they will kill several thousand of my kind every year, and get away with it. To date I have killed 16 of them. I have a long way to go before the score is even. But I am new to this particular game, and they are very good at staying out of the spotlight, and not getting caught. Mystery and terror are their cloak and dagger, and they have had millennia to practice. It is a good system.

As far as terror goes, I know better than anyone alive how frightening they are, and how much I should fear them, but I don't. I think the part of me that fears is dead. For whatever reason, to me they are merely a target to be serviced, a challenge to be conquered, a plague to be exterminated, and a quarry to be hunted. Dangerous game to be sure, but so are bears, and lions, and rhino, and these get hunted all the time. You just have to know what you are doing, bring the right tools, and try not to get eaten.

I killed my first one five years ago when I caught it feeding on my wife, and I think that's why they don't frighten me. Circumstances contrived to make my first true interaction with them punctuated by rage, not fear. God, I still remember its face at that moment… it was so smug, and disinterested in me. It probably thought to have me next; but a moment later I disappointed it severely, I suspect. The look on his face when his limbs were gone and the fire started was all the solace I needed. I knew that it had already killed me (or at least any part of me that mattered) when it took her, so I ceased to be a human being that night; and at that point was glad to be rid of it. Without her, there was no point to it, anyway. Humanity became superfluous, because what I needed more than anything else right then was to be something that could terrify a _vampire_, and quite frankly, the sparkles are NOT afraid of humans. But rest assured, I learned three very important lessons that night: they are VERY hard to kill, but they CAN die, and they DO fear.

Tonight's mark was obscenely typical for the species: tall, lean, very good-looking. He had sandy brown hair, and looked to be in his early twenties, physically. That doesn't really mean anything, though. I had watched him work the nightclubs all night, which is very common for the type. Prey is gathered in one spot, usually drunk or under the influence of something and therefore easier to manipulate. It amounts to a vampire all-you-can-eat buffet. My guy was obviously doing well with his meal selection, as women were positively hurling themselves at him. The behavior was, quite frankly, disgusting. He was either not very hungry or being discerning, though. I have observed that every vampire had unique feeding habits. Some were indiscriminate with regard to sex or age or occupation, where others were picky to the point of obsessive. Considering how often this one was feeding, I suspect he was enjoying the stalk more than anything the individual food item brought to the table.

My target was dancing and carousing with many younger women, but seemed to disregard each individual after a few minutes. I know that each sparkle is unique, with unique talents, and therefore each one had unique rituals when it came to feeding. I didn't have enough data to speculate as to what my particular friend needed from his food, but he wasn't finding it here. However, at about 1:45AM, he started chatting up a cute little brunette. She was exactly what you would expect for late-night club fare in a city that wasn't as cool as it thought it was: young, vapid and pretty. She was wearing a red dress so tight you see her belly button through the fabric, and she played with her hair constantly. Her laugh was something between a braying donkey and the cries of a stepped-on tomcat. Despite this, my sparkly friend seemed to lose all discernment at this point, and took great pains to keep a full drink in her hand at all times. The look on his face radiated banal enthusiastic interest in her conversation; in fact he had every appearance of being entirely enthralled with everything she said. I recognized the obscene parody of human mating behavior: when last call comes, you stop being picky and go home with the one in front of you. It is silly enough in humans, but in a vampire it was downright ridiculous. It is bad enough when you kill people for food, but this critter compounded his trespass by doing it for fun. It was hard for me to maintain my composure when I saw this. Typically, hunting vampires is a cold, calculating, military operation for me. It has to be…they are simply too dangerous and powerful to work any other way. But when I see one playing with its food, well, I get…testy. My heart rate quickened, and I knew what would happen next. I moved to my secondary observation post and retrieved the rest of my gear.

He was going to convince her to leave the club and go somewhere else. Most sparkles were smart enough to have a safe location to feed close to their hunting ground. In an urban environment, he had to make sure he got his prey to that location without attracting attention. This was not typically all that complex a process. Get the drunken girl into the car, take her to your lair and feed, rinse and repeat. This is the best time to hunt them, as they have a tendency to be entirely preoccupied with getting the meal. The blood-thirst tends to reduce their normally perfect self-control to a level somewhere around a heroin junkie out for a fix. My experience indicated that this analogy was probably closer to the truth than any other way of describing it. It was something I counted on when I hunted. I had not been able to find his particular lair yet, but I had ways of getting him to where I needed him to be.

When I was a young man, I would hunt coyotes for the bounty in my rural hometown. Coyotes are the toughest animal in the world to trap, because they are fiendishly smart and very wary. They will walk into a trap, steal the bait, and walk right out again. They are that good. If you really wanted to get a lot of coyotes, you would need raw chicken. The wily coyote seemed to lose all intelligence as soon as it smelled that bird. Coyotes are just plain stupid for chicken. It is much the same hunting vampires. They are smarter, faster, stronger and meaner than you; but with the right bait, you can level the field very quickly. When the smell of blood was in the air, a vampire was just another coyote to me.

I watched the sparkle leave the club with his snack in tow. The lot had emptied out quite a bit, and like most people who love their cars too much, he had parked far away from the door to avoid dings and scratches. They were laughing and flirting all the way to the car, like they were just two crazy kids going to continue partying after hours. Naturally, the mood visibly soured when he found all four tires on his BMW flattened. I hate to damage a nice car, but fortunately it _was_ a BMW. A Jaguar would have been physically painful for me.

Another interesting note about vampire behavior: they do not take frustration well. When you spend several hundred years getting accustomed to having what you want all the time, without delay, in a consequence-free environment, the minor annoyances of life can be insurmountable.

I immediately noted the reaction of my sparkly friend as he began to realize that getting his meal to his lair was going to be problematic. If he was smart, or at least calm, he might get on his cell phone and call a cab, even though that would leave a witness to the girl's last known location. If he was really smart he would give up and wait for a better night. However, I was counting on him to be impatient and frustrated. A frustrated vampire becomes a coyote with a nose full of chicken, and that is something rather more manageable.

He began jerking his head around, looking either for the perpetrator, or for somewhere to take the girl, I suspect. It was summer, he only had a few more hours until sunrise, and he was getting aggravated. Good. He smiled crookedly back at the girl when his eyes fell on the small building across the parking lot. It was an old guard shack for after-hours private security. It had not seen any real use in ten years, but it still stood. It probably did as much to scare potential vandals and junkies out of the lot now, as it did when the guard sat in there all night. It was small and dark, and well-hidden. Perfect.

I could not hear him from my vantage point, but I imagine he came up with some suave reason to head over to it. Possibly to make a call for help from a pay phone, or ask somebody inside for assistance. It didn't matter, she would believe him if he told her magic tire-fixing elves lived there. They always do. His hyper-acute senses had told him what I already knew: the guard shack was empty. They sauntered over and I could see his humor returning. He was still agitated, but he seemed relieved to have a solution so close at hand. A normal human, who had to deal with real world problems, would have been more leery of so easy and obvious a solution. When you only live a hundred years at best, you get very cynical, I guess.

I began to move to my primary engagement post as they approached the shack. I slipped on my headgear and goggles. To appear less obvious, I pulled my floppy wallaby down to cover my strangely-goggled eyes and headphones. This was the most critical time for me. I carefully stood on the circle I had marked on the manhole cover earlier that day. This gave me a good view of my target, while covering me behind a bus stand about 40 feet away. This is where it got tricky. My gear meant that he probably would not smell me, or pick up my body heat; but if he looked right at me there would be nothing I could do about it. A six-foot, 220-pound man in a long black overcoat, floppy hat, facemask and goggles, who appeared unnaturally stocky (25 pounds of armor under your coat is NOT a slimming look!) hanging out in an abandoned parking lot at 3 in the morning in the middle of July? Nope. Not conspicuous at all.

If he made me, at that point I'd have to make a move to save the girl, or give up the hunt (and the girl) for the night. Saving the girl meant trying to take him in the parking lot, and you NEVER want to engage a vampire out in the open. Their speed is a serious obstacle when they have room to maneuver. Of course, in a cramped space, that advantage amounts to very little. Preparation is the key. The military and self-defense people call it "conditioning the battlefield." You remove your enemy's advantages or turn them into weaknesses. Without a conditioned battlefield my chances were not great. My gear is top-notch, but I like to stack the deck in my favor early and often. It would be best if he didn't spot me before I was ready.

He walked up to the door and gave it what appeared to be a casual jiggle, and of course it opened freely (A casual jiggle from a vampire was more than sufficient to break the lock, after all). He took two steps inside the shack, and his nose crinkled at an unfamiliar scent. This was another critical moment. There was no way to mask the scent of some of my preparations, but as long as he had never spelled high-explosives before, he probably wouldn't worry too much about it. I hope.

He quickly glanced around just to ensure they were alone, and then grinned back to the girl as if to invite her in. That's when all hell broke loose, and by "all hell" I mean: "me." Sparkles are incredibly fast, so everything had to be timed perfectly. With my right hand I shot the girl with a veterinarian's dart loaded with piperidine; or as the kids call it: "monkey tranquillizer." She dropped like a stone where she stood, unconscious in the parking lot. With my left hand, I activated the shaped charges at his feet.

The floor fell out from under him with a tremendous crack as the ceiling fell down. He found himself in a maintenance tunnel platform underneath the shack and the parking lot, trapped by the remains of the shack. I dropped down from the manhole by my post and quickly sealed the access door to the maintenance tunnel behind me. I counted on his hyper-acute hearing to be deafened by the blast and for him to be disoriented (Vampire senses are amazing, but if you surprise them, they are easily overloaded), and I managed to slip unnoticed into the tunnel while he was still collecting himself.

As beautiful as these creatures are when they are hunting, they are truly hideous when angry. Frustrated by the ambush, confused by the strange smells, and deafened by the noise, his face was contorted into a savage, animal, rictus. He was crouched in a pile of debris and dust at the far end of the tunnel. He did not appear to have suffered any injury from the blast, though. If the street had not had so many buildings or people around it, I would have used much more explosive, but I did not want to hurt or kill any civilians. So I ended up using only enough HE to drop the floor and bring the shack down on top of it. Normally, I'd have used enough to break all his bones, or maybe separate him from a few of his limbs.

Unfortunately, this meant that he was pissed off, but essentially undamaged. That is a problem. Gone was the golden god that preyed upon humanity as a matter of divine right, and in its place was cornered animal. Cornered animals are the most dangerous, but I must admit that this is the moment I enjoy the most: That moment when the arrogance of perceived perfection is replaced with the fear, anger and shame of being hurt and alone and unprotected. Something had DARED to thwart HIM, and that's not FAIR!

Battling vampires is like surfing in a hurricane. You never really have control of what is going on while you are doing it, you are just sort of riding the wave and waiting for your opportunities. If you really know what you are doing, really understand the nature of your opposition, and are really careful, you can get away with it. A weak vampire will be five times as strong as the average man. A normal vampire will be ten times as strong, and a strong vampire could have twenty times the strength of an average man. Their skin and bone is incredibly dense and resistant to injury, and they can move faster than your eyes can track. This basically means fighting with the smallest, weakest, grandmother vampire will be like wrestling with a gorilla. Punching it out with a strong vampire would be like trading blows with a bulldozer. It is just a losing proposition and should be avoided at all costs. Once you wrap your head around _that, _you have to factor in the supernatural nature of their physicality: They don't die the same way we do. Any of their biological systems is independent and tertiary to their survival. They can regenerate any lost or destroyed tissue, replace body parts, and will revive and resume lividity even after all observable biological functions have ceased. They can even control and move dismembered limbs. It's ludicrous.

One does not "kill" a vampire. One must DESTROY it.

I have never put much stock in magic or the supernatural, and the truth is, I still don't. Destroying my target is, and always has been, a matter of bringing the correct tools to the workspace. I am a 6-foot 220lb man. I am a dedicated weightlifter and martial arts expert. Growing up I spent much of my time in the gym, boxing ring, dojo, and shooting range. As far as humans go, I am very hard to beat. But to a vampire, my physicality is inconsequential. So I must neutralize my opponent's advantages to make this contest competitive.

Case in point: After being dropped though the floor, my target found himself trapped and deaf (Hyper-sensitive hearing and high-explosives never mix) in a tunnel that was 30 feet long and 15 feet wide. At one end there was a reinforced concrete wall, and the other a forged steel door. Basically, he was now in an environment where his speed and senses were much more manageable. I would like to have used enough HE to break his bones and rip a few appendages off, but that wasn't an option at this location. In reality, broken bones only force them to move slower anyway, and they heal fairly quickly, but every edge helps. As it stood at that time, if I allowed him to calm down, he would dig himself out of the hole in short order.

So I shot him.

Vampire reflexes are good to a point, but they don't dodge bullets at short range; and most importantly, the one item my friend had failed to notice at the bottom of this pit, was me. My weapon of choice for this maneuver is a Ruger Super-Redhawk revolver in .454 Casull. If truth be told, standard bullets don't bother vampires too much. They hurt, and can do damage, but they do not present a credible threat to survival. As a result, I do not shoot vampires to kill them; since vampires are entirely _too fast _I shoot them to slow them down.

Without any modification, a bullet from this pistol will drop any animal on the planet. It was designed as a back-up piece for African big-game hunters, and it is singularly unimpressed by charging rhinos and elephants. Of course, a vampire is far tougher than any paltry 6-ton animal, and so _these_ bullets are 400-grain steel-jacked depleted uranium core (I make them myself). This bullet will perforate one inch of steel plate and _still _exit with enough energy to kill a moose. While most bullets would deform and harmlessly disperse their energy on tough vampire skin, _this_ bullet bores straight through. At close range it often exits out the back as well, which is dramatic but does not really add to the effect. Vampires really ignore superficial damage, and they don't "bleed out" like we do, so I did not waste my time shooting the vampire in the chest as often taught. Vampires can survive chest wounds without much difficulty. I shot him in the hip. Sometimes this results in traumatic amputation of the leg, but this time it merely reduced the vampire's pelvis and top half of the femur to splinters in a shower of thick, red blood and high-velocity bone splinters. The resulting howl was positively terrifying. Or hilarious, depending on what level of sociopath your life's circumstances have made you.

Then he came at me like something out of a child's nightmare.

Even with one leg nearly useless and hanging off his body like a broken rudder, he was able to leap the nearly 25 feet separating us in the blink of an eye (or technically speaking, probably faster than that!). If he had aimed his blow carefully he could have killed me outright, but his rage made him blind and he went for the center of mass and collided with my chest. My entire outfit is designed to mask my scent and body heat, as well as provide me with impact protection. To that effect I wore Nomex/Kevlar armor over my chest, torso and legs, with reactive gel padding underneath. My overcoat was Kevlar liberally reinforced with composite ballistic plating and more reactive gel. This tech was designed to protect special ops troops from bad parachute landings, close-range explosions, and incoming bullets. Vampires are strong, but the Kevlar is 100 times stronger than steel, and the reactive gel was rated for 90 g's of lateral acceleration. The suit and coat alone cost $600,000.00 and I could (probably) survive getting struck by an SUV travelling at highway speed in it. Even so, the impact from one gimpy vampire was staggering. He drove me against the reinforced concrete wall of the tunnel with teeth-rattling force. I felt the reactive gel stiffen and I could not breathe for a second while the normally pliable substance thickened to absorb the impact. I felt the whole tunnel shudder from the impact and portions of the wall behind me cracked as cinderblocks buckled. But I chose this battleground for a reason, and this was a load-bearing tunnel constructed of reinforced concrete. You would need ten pounds of SemTex to break out of here. The shock caused me to drop the Redhawk, and he could have easily beaten or crushed me to death there, if not for another tool in my arsenal.

There is no way I will ever be fast enough to stop a charge from a sparkle, therefore I cannot stop him from hitting me. This would normally be the end of the conversation, because a vampire can easily kill you with a single blow. They are that fast and strong, and there is little you can do about it. So what do you do if you can't _stop_ them from hitting you? Youmake the price of hitting you _very_ steep. The instant he collided with me, several pressure sensors in my overcoat registered the spike in lateral g's and PSI along the impact. This triggered a controller that discharged 25000 volts of electricity along several exposed gold lateral lines in my coat and armor in a one-second burst at nearly 1500 amps (at normal human resistance). Each discharge uses up one entire 6-pound battery and whatever lateral line the sparkle is touching, but it has saved my ass on several hunts. I carry two of these batteries, and I never complain about the weight. With a tremendous crack (not unlike thunder), a blue-white explosion vaporized much of his right forearm, converting most of it to carbon and acrid smoke in the process, my antagonist was hurled off of me and backwards against the far wall of the tunnel. His howls had lost all semblance of humanity as his primal brain completely took over. The noise and the flash completely blinded him and deafened him again, while my headgear softened the sound and all but eliminated the flash entirely.

Vampires are tough, but not indestructible. The process of regenerating damaged tissue requires energy, and vampires get their energy from human blood. My goal in these encounters is to damage the target faster than he can repair himself, all while keeping him angry and focused on me so he does not suddenly smarten up and run. Some have, generally the older ones, escaped me. But typically, once you have hurt them, their natural feral nature takes over. For my dance partner this night, the battle had only lasted thirty seconds, and he had already suffered catastrophic damage to his left leg and hip, and was now missing much of his right arm. I do not completely understand how they feel pain, or on what level; but I do know that they feel it. I use that to keep them reacting instead of thinking. This guy was hurting bad, and I intended to keep that up. I could see that fear and doubt were beginning to set in, but even if he was inclined to run, I had him trapped in the tunnel. I love it when a plan comes together.

One of the most psychologically damaging things you can do to a vampire is to NOT fear them. Besides, unless you have access to a rocket launcher or a flamethrower, you really can't destroy one without getting in close, so you are going to have to get over that fear, anyway. So I charged him as he attempted to get up, and I was surprised when even with his shattered hip (which was beginning to repair itself) he met me halfway. The strength and resilience of these things is truly fantastic, even to me. He grabbed my overcoat with his good left hand and threw me a full twenty feet against the far tunnel wall. Again the armor took the impact, but not without knocking the wind out of me.

He was on me before I even hit the ground, and going for my throat with his teeth. My heart rate doubled and I struggled with rising anxiety as I felt his teeth gnawing at my neck. Stupid mistake! I thought I had hurt him enough to get close, and I could die for that error. Fortunately, I wore a gorget of the same material as the rest of my armor, and all he managed to do was start choking me. The pressure was incredible though, and spots danced across my eyes. If I didn't get rid of him soon, he was going to crush my windpipe. He was lean, but he probably weighed 250 pounds (vampires are DENSE). His good left arm had a viselike grip on my overcoat, and if not for the reactive gel and ballistic plating, he would have already ground my collarbone into powder. He was not exerting enough lateral force to set off my other shock battery, but he was ignoring my hands completely. After all, what could I do with just my hands to a vampire?

Well, I could certainly jab my thumb into his open hip wound. That got his attention. He sat upright immediately and howled.

As soon as his weight shifted, twenty years of judo and jujitsu was more than sufficient to roll from underneath him to a top position and break his grip on my neck. But even his one good arm was strong enough to unseat me as soon as he remembered to try. Before he could, I quickly placed my palm on his forehead and triggered my staker, a simple device strapped along the inside of either forearm that houses a single-shot tube charged with a 12-gauge blank and tungsten carbide spike. Now, you can't actually kill a vampire with a stake (Incidentally, staking corpses to the ground so they could not rise is how that rumor got started). But if you use a 12-gauge shotgun shell to propel an 8" tungsten carbide spike into a vampire's eye socket at point plank range while grappling, you CAN pin him to the ground with it, and turn his central nervous system into viscous, oozing jelly.

This started a violent spasm in his body that, with his incredible strength, tossed me off him like a drunk cowboy wannabe on the local mechanical bull. With his brain destroyed, the vampire had no real consciousness, but if left to his own devices, he would eventually recover. This was the kind of thing that took a lot of energy and plenty of time to do, however. If he had fed recently, he would probably be up and whole in a few hours, but I certainly had no intention of giving him that kind of time.

It was a horrifying thing to observe; this undead thing thrashing about with a spike in its head holding it to the floor. I couldn't help but imagine a trout flopping on the shore, with a hook still holding it in place. It took a lot of the mystique of this fey creature right out of the picture. I couldn't help but smirk a little. There was really no time for observation and introspection, though. It was already closing the gunshot wound and knitting the bones back together as I watched. It was eerie, like watching necrotizing fasciitis in reverse. The forearm was charred, and that would take a while to heal, but it had already begun to add new skin and pink muscle tissue was becoming visible. The process was fascinating to watch, from a clinical perspective, and I am nothing if not clinical.

At this point, there was nothing left to do but finish the job before he was whole enough to fight back again. I secured his thrashing limbs to the floor with 4 more stakes, to hold him down while I went and collected my work bag. It was bizarrely satirical, to see this unholy demon, crucified and twitching in iconic fashion on the floor of a sewer. I am not a religious man, but I have nailed more than one vampire to the floor, and the imagery was not entirely lost on me. If the universe thought casting me as Pontius Pilate for the vampire world was funny, then I could appreciate its sense of humor. Somewhere, I think kindly old Father Stephen would approve. I gave a wry grin at my prey and muttered "_requiescat in pace__, _asshole." He did not deign to respond. More's the pity.

From my black canvas duffel, I pulled out five one-gallon air-tight aluminum containers. From each one I removed a slab of white, clay-like substance wrapped in plastic. I picked up the Redhawk from where I had dropped it and emptied the last five rounds into the vampire's chest, each massive concussion opening new huge rents and gaping cavities. His body heaved and gurgled fruitlessly every time the massive bullets tore a new hole in it, while the thrashing creature frantically struggled to repair the massive damage it had suffered. These things simply do not stop fighting, but I had inflicted so much damage at this point that his strength was probably no more than that of a regular man by this time. Vampires may be magical, but energy is a finite resource. With all his reserves going into repairing the injuries, he had nothing left in the tank for superhuman strength or speed. I could still see the wounds trying to heal as I worked, and that quickened my pace somewhat.

In each one of the gunshot wounds I had just created, I placed a block of the white clay. He thrashed and gurgled in defiance, but his brain still had a tungsten carbide stake through it, so no conscious resistance was possible. When all wounds were stuffed, I quickly tore the plastic wrap off the tops of the blocks and let the air hit the big blocks of white phosphorous. As soon as the oxygen touched it, the substance ignited spontaneously, rapidly climbing to a temperature of over 3000 degrees. Five blocks was probably overkill, but I believe in being thorough. When they stopped burning, there would not be enough viable material left of this creature to regenerate a hamster. I could not stay to watch the pyre, as the smoke was thick and toxic, and the heat too quickly became oppressive. But as I slipped out the access door, I stole a look back. Through the smoke, I could make out the silhouette of the vampire as it thrashed and burned in the 3000 degree bright-white flames. I wondered if that's what hell felt like: fire and pain and torment, with nothing at the end.

Nothing left at the end but metal spikes in a pile of ash.

This game just got a little more competitive.


	2. Glasgow, Montana

It was quite the predicament.

He was staring at me, I was staring at him. I was thinking that he'd made me, but I didn't really know. It was 3:30 in the afternoon and I had just popped over to the 7-11 for a diet Pepsi and a protein bar (I really gotta fix my diet) and there was this guy there staring at me.

He sure looks like one of them, but he is not the one I've been working this week. He was tall; at least six and a half feet tall, and if he was normal like you and me, probably a lean 250 pounds. But I had a sneaking suspicion he was closer to 400. He had that youthful and oppressively beautiful countenance and beatific composure they all seem to have. He was standing completely still, and even then he looked graceful and elegant. It's gotta be low-level telepathy or empathy. They can't all be that pretty. He was not being subtle in his study of me at all. He was deliberately watching me and he wanted me to know it. I cleared the door and went for the coolers in back and there he was, looking all blank and stoic. His eyes were so dark brown as to look completely black, and his bleached hair was short and spiky. He was wearing blue jeans, brown loafers, and a tight pink T-shirt with the words,"define 'girlfriend'" stenciled across the front. This was creepy. He slurped noisily from his blue raspberry slushee and just kept staring at me.

I was in street clothes, and I had almost no gear on except the overcoat, shock batteries (they are sewn into the coat), and the Redhawk in a shoulder rig. At this distance I'd never even clear the holster. Hell, I'd need 100 yards or more to clear the holster from his type. If he made a move my only hope was that the shock batteries would surprise him enough for me to unload the revolver into him and escape. That is, if his charge itself didn't kill me outright. This was going to be tricky.

I let my eyes meet his. No point in acting scared. Let him think I knew something he didn't. Sparkles hate when you act like they aren't scary. It felt like a million maggots were having a square-dancing competition under my skin when our eyes met. I stifled a shudder and forced myself to nod an almost imperceptible greeting; just two guys bumping into each other at the quickie-mart. At this show of bravado his face split into a wolfish grin, complete with bright-white teeth and cruelly arched eyebrows. This guy really _was_ something right out of a comic book.

"Walk with me, Martin," he said cordially in a flawless _basso profundo_ with just a hint of an English accent, and flicked his head towards the door. He knew the name I was operating under? It's not my real name, but it meant that he had done some research at least. I really needed to know more about this guy. Not wanting to go at it in the store, I felt compelled to at least feign compliance until my opportunities improved, and more intelligence had been gathered.

I paid for my breakfast and walked out with my erstwhile companion. It was strange to be so close to a vampire and not be trying to destroy it. We walked in silence. The afternoon was cold and very gray, and the sun was already almost completely down. Dark comes early in the Montana winter, and this suits the vampires just fine. So far we had kept to the streets. If he wanted to kill me, he would really need somewhere secluded to do it; and he was not even trying. I wonder if he knew what would happen if he tried to force me. Did he know about the pressure sensors? Or the defensive contacts in my coat that would discharge enough current to vaporize his hand if he grabbed me? If he did, then he was VERY well informed. I was pretty sure that every vampire that knew about my equipment was dead…because quite frankly, the only way to know about my equipment was to experience it. This had universally led to a bad ending for the vampire.

The streets were well populated with Christmas shoppers, and at no point were we concealed from public view. So far, there was no indication that he intended to harm me. For some reason, that made me even more nervous. I had always counted on my prey being predictable. This was a very unpredictable vampire. I didn't like it at all. He led me to a city bench in front of a fountain at a busy intersection. We sat. It was eerie.

"Oh, Martin," he breathed, "I assume we shall call you Martin. It's what you've been using anyway, so it will do. Which Martin are you calling yourself after: St. Martin of Tours, the patron saint of soldiers and fighters, or St. Martin de Porres, the patron saint of racial harmony?"

I chuckled; this guy had done his homework, "Both."

"I knew you were going to say that," was his dry response. "You may call me Mr. Frost. I know quite a bit about you, Martin; but not as much as I'd like. You have been a very busy man, and not everybody thinks that is a good thing. I, for one, am _undecided_."

That last word had an air of deliberation to it. It was a carefully chosen word, and I was being studied for my reaction to it. How much did he _know_? Dry sarcasm is sort of my default conversational setting, and I saw no need to change that for this monster. "Well, my lanky friend, exactly how can I help you with your decision?" I responded glibly. This guy wanted something from me, and therefore he would not kill me until he got it. I had time. "I think you and I have some serious philosophical differences that would preclude friendship, and since you haven't tried to kill me yet, I must assume you have a transaction of some sort in mind."

His laughter was explosive and damned contagious. His emotional pull was affecting even me. "You misunderstand me, Sir!" He boomed, "I would personally LOVE to be your friend. Your enemies have a notoriously poor survival rate! It certainly is not impossible that some of your past enemies were some of my enemies too, now is it? Nor is it entirely impossible that some of _your _future enemies may not also be my enemies as well. Is it so hard to believe that?" His grin could swallow a Buick.

"Sometimes, however, your enemies are my unfortunate responsibility. Take your current quarry, for instance. You have been stalking Rafael Velaquez. He _is_ a rather noisome insect; we are in complete agreement in that. Under normal circumstances, you killing him would only improve my mood; but circumstances are not normal, and so his death at this time would be problematic. Which is why I am here talking to you. I would like to negotiate."

"Ahhhhh, so you want me to hunt only your enemies, then? What makes you think I care to discriminate in my targets based solely upon your preference? What makes you think I won't hunt YOU?" Now it was time to see exactly what my tall friend brought to the table.

His grin never wavered, "You don't want to hunt me because I can help you find peace. Your crusade is futile. You will never get us all, and you will never avenge whatever loved one you lost. Eventually, you will slip up and one of us will kill you. It will probably be me." He shifted in the seat to bring the full intensity of his gaze upon me. "There are…conventions…that those of my race are obliged to respect when we deal with each other. There are patterns, and codes, and secret cabals within our society. I can give you these keys to our society and help you to purge those animals that infect even us."

His gaze intensified, "Did you know that there are those of us who refuse human blood? Those of us that consume only animals for sustenance? They call us 'vegetarians' and sneer at us, as they believe it makes us weaker than the others. There are levels and degrees to everything, even vampires, Mr. Martin. We are not all evil, marauding monsters; but we are ALL bound by our rules. You are not subject to our rules, and you are the only human to have killed a vampire in a thousand years. I am prepared to help you kill my kind, as long as you kill those who oppose me first."

"I watched you hunt in Kansas last month, Mr. Martin," he continued. "I do not know exactly what transpired in that tunnel, but I _do_ know that you locked yourself into a confined space with a healthy vampire with a reputation for brutality, and killed him in less than 5 minutes. I checked, I don't know how you did it, but there was nothing left of him but white ash and those ingenious metal spikes of yours! How do you manage to penetrate our flesh with only regular human strength? You may not realize it, Mr. Martin, but that is _extremely _impressive."

"I do good work," was my measured response. This was very strange. I had not detected him in Kansas at all. They have been watching me for a while, then.

"After the mess in San Francisco," He continued, "Sloppy work, that; my people sent me to find and eliminate you." I stiffened a little at that, my hand slowly maneuvering to the butt of the Redhawk in my left armpit.

"Relax, Mr. Martin," he said, "If I wanted you dead, I would have made my move. But unfortunately, ours is not a terribly scientific race, and I still haven't figured out how to attack you without getting one of those horrible little shocks I've observed. You cannot possibly be triggering them yourself, can you? By the way, clever as that is, it will not protect you forever, you know."

I had to chuckle a little bit at that, "So far, so good, though, Mr. Frost!"

"Your logic is unassailable, Mr. Martin," was his good-natured response. This one was obscenely likable. He continued jovially, "Observing you at work I began to realize that you were very unique. Here is a little tidbit about our race you may not have been aware of. Each of us will generally develop _unique_ talents of our own when we are turned; based upon our skills or idiosyncrasies as a human. If one was an overly intuitive human, they may end up a clairvoyant vampire. An excessively fast human will be a remarkably fast vampire." He got very close to me and slowly enunciated, "A man who is uniquely gifted at killing vampires as a human? Well, there are those of us who wonder what _he_ would be like if turned. Imagine it: Our strength, our speed, our longevity, and our durability all at your disposal! You would be a force of nature!"

My skin prickled. I was being tempted by the devil himself with the power to crush my enemies. How many men had stood at this same crossroads, and how did history remember them? It was very compelling. "Force of nature, Mr. Frost?" I cracked my knuckles, "And exactly _who_ would reap this whirlwind?" I asked quietly, "Your enemies? Mine? Who controls me after the change? What do I become?" Niestche may have been a madman, but he gave good advice, "'He who would fight monsters should take care, lest he become one himself' Mr. Frost. I do not see how becoming my worst enemy will help me find my peace."

I let him see my eyes. If they are at all empathic, as I suspect, then let him feel my resolution, unfettered by caution or pragmatism! "You think I am trying to kill all the vampires, Mr. Frost. That is inaccurate. I do not care about killing every vampire, as you will just make more, and doing so will not change anything that has happened. This is about my gift to your race: the gift of _fear. _ I will give you and everyone like you a reason to hide during the day. To stop me you must kill me. _Do you hear that, Mr. Frost? _This ends with my death, because life no longer means anything to me. Your kind saw to that. If you make me immortal, then my crusade will never end, my journey will never end, and my pain will never end. You are offering me eternal suffering, Mr. Frost, and I think I will decline."

Frost's good humor seemed somewhat dampened, "I see. If I cannot persuade you with immortality, then perhaps reason will be more effective."

He pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, as if he had a headache or a particularly troublesome child to deal with. It was a strangely human gesture, and I couldn't help but be amused. "Mr. Martin," He began, "I was one of the greatest hunters of men who ever lived. Kings and emperors employed my services whenever their sense of expediency overwhelmed their personal honor. I was a great assassin as a human, and as a vampire I am the most dangerous creature you have ever met. Ironically, despite having killed hundreds of men as a human, I have not killed a single human since I was turned. I feed on only animals." He snorted, "Killing humans is an affront to my skills. We are _both_ killers, Mr. Martin, and I would not insult our craft by lying to you about something so trivial."

He leaned back in the bench with a thoughtful, faraway look on his face, "I do not want to waste your skills by killing you, Mr. Martin. Much could be," he paused, a moment, searching for the correct word, _"accomplished_, with your assistance." He stopped and gave me a measuring gaze, "You have a great opportunity tonight, Mr. Martin. You can choose to be St. Martin de Porres, and work with me to improve racial harmony by killing those who are truly evil among both our races, or you can choose to be St. Martin de Tours and we will battle each other tonight, and let history choose the victor."

His eyes narrowed and a low growl escaped his chest. He seemed to grow and widen in front of me as his lips curled back into a feral grin. His youthful, almost cherubic face contorted into the remorseless façade of a timeless, natural-born killer. The transformation was remarkable, and the visage terrifying. It was a stark contrast to his affable nature up to this point. His voice was no longer amiable or friendly, but the hushed snarl of a tiger at work in its natural habitat, "I have not killed a human being in 300 years, Mr. Martin. None have ever been worth it. I have been killing vampires, and werewolves, and things you can't even imagine since your great-great-great-great grandfather was a boy, and no petty, mewling, flimsy human can compare to that." His face was only inches from mine now, "But I think you will prove to be a very satisfying kill, Mr. Martin. You are like me, and that will be a strange thing; to kill one so much like myself. I have often wondered how I would face death, and killing you may be the only way to know the answer." He leaned back, breaking the intense stare-down between us, and some of his previous composure returned, "It does not matter to me what you choose to do. Help me, or die by my hand. You decide. I will know your decision by your actions. If you kill Rafael tonight, than I know you are not with me, and I will come for you. If Rafael lives come sunrise, then I guess we are friends and I will contact you. Good night, Mr. Martin."

He stood up and walked away briskly. In a few moments I had lost his silhouette in the gathering twilight, and was left by myself on the bench. I did not linger there, but quickly stood up and made my way back to the hotel.

There was much to do.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I did not trust Frost. Vampires are altogether too convincing as liars. Killing Velasquez was a foregone conclusion as well. Velasquez was more than just a vampire; he was a local crime lord and overall rat bastard. He used his mundane criminal enterprises to mask his feeding habits, as well as arrange for a steady food supply to other vampires within his organization. Striking him meant cutting off easy food supply to many of the vampires in the northern US and Southern Canada. No amount of threatening or cajoling from Mr. Frost was going to earn this joker a reprieve from me. This is also why Frost probably wasn't eager to lose him yet; a test to see if I could be controlled. I've never tested well.

Either way, Frost's machinations were immaterial to me. Velasquez was going down. The problem was: when would Frost come for me? He appeared to be very good at this sort of thing, and for the first time, I truly questioned whether I was prepared for the battle.

My schedule called for me to take down Velasquez at 10:30 PM. He was a creature of habit, and he routinely partied from 11PM to the break of dawn. I picked a night where he probably was not going to feed, and this left him alone in his hotel suite for about a half hour while he prepped for another evening of debauchery and excess.

I debuted a new piece of equipment on him, and it worked beautifully. It's tricky, but with adequate prep time, it would give me good service in the future. Velasquez was young for a vampire, and relatively careless to boot. He was too high on his own invincibility to see the threat coming, and he was unprepared for my traps. Taking him down was one of my easier operations. I could not finish him at the hotel (too public), but with the help of a laundry cart, I moved his twitching body to the hotel basement and out through the loading dock. Once there, it was no trouble at all to load him into the van and make my escape. Once I was safely back to my campsite in the Montana woods, I put the white phosphorus to him and let him burn. Solid work, if I do say so myself.

Now I had only to wait for Mr. Frost.

I knew he would be coming. I suspect he knew about Velasquez's death by midnight, but not sooner. If my suspicions were accurate, Frost would have had to keep a little distance from Velasquez for fear of discovery. Vampires trust each other very little, and Frost seemed like the kind of guy even vampire's got spooked by. This gave me some time to prepare.

I moved to the back of my cave. It was located in the side of a steep rock formation deep in the Montana pine forests. It had only one entrance, and the approach was very difficult. Terrain was rarely an issue for vampires, but the cover was thick, and at least he would not be able to come at me full speed. I activated the mines along the approach, and set the perimeter motion detectors. I rigged the cave entrance with claymores, and put on all my armor. This was the most defensible position I could manage, and it was a good one. You always want to choose your terrain carefully when dealing with vampires.

Something about Frost had me spooked, so I added all the extra ballistic plating I had brought to my regular armor, and put on the helmet. All told, the entire getup weighed almost 65 pounds, but the weight was distributed evenly and balanced perfectly. Like a Teutonic knight with his custom-made plate mail, I was only marginally impinged in motion or speed. Of course, no knight was ever so well protected as I was in my high-tech cocoon of plastic and steel. I slipped into the overcoat, checked the batteries, holstered the Redhawk, loaded my pouches with various grenades, and settled down to wait.

The first mine went off at 1:45 AM. How he got past the motion sensors, I'll never know. The tremendous explosion startled me and shook the cave. I heard Frost's booming laughter from outside.

"Nicely done, Mr. Martin, I missed that one!" For a man who had just stepped on a 4-lb anti-personnel mine, he sounded remarkably unperturbed. I had known that he would smell the mines, so I had put out so many that even he would not have been able to pick them all out individually.

"Come out, Mr. Martin!" I heard Frost's voice dangerously close to the entrance of my cave. "I know you have all sorts of nastiness waiting for me in there, so I am disinclined to come in, but then again, I suppose you are disinclined to come out as well!" He laughed some more, "You know, Mr. Martin, that I can wait out here much longer than you can wait in there!" More laughter.

He was right; I would lose a siege. It's not something I had the opportunity to deal with much in this line of work. Usually, a vampire is so angry or hungry, they just sort of charge at me. They are generally very confident that I can't hurt them and so they do not exercise caution. I had hoped for a similar case tonight, but Frost was obviously more refined.

Despite my circumstances, I found myself enjoying this interaction. It seemed absurd, but I could not help but revel in the possibility of this battle. Frost was obviously older and more cunning than my usual prey, and for the first time I really expected to die. This was exhilarating, precisely because I did not WANT to die. Since I started this crusade, I had told myself it was just my way of committing suicide and seeking justice at the same time. I embraced the possibility, nay inevitability, of the death that awaited me. Now that I was facing it, I wanted to _beat_ it. I have not feared death for many years now, but I _had_ been running a slow footrace against it out of spite. At least now, as I faced my greatest foe, I could see death approaching, and I was eager to test myself against it. Come and get me you son of a bitch…

My mind raced. No matter how fast he came into the cave, he was not faster than the speed of light, so the sensors would trip and the mines would go off. He was not faster than the speed of sound, either, so the blasts and shrapnel would hit him. The variable was whether or not he was durable enough to ride that out and still have enough in the tank to take me out. Frost was taking no chances, so that led me to believe he was not sure of his own limits, either. Vampire strength, speed and durability are not infinite. They are limited by age, skill, and the amount of feeding the vampire has done. The fastest way to drain those energy reserves is to do massive damage. Regeneration and damage repair slow vampires down significantly. This is my bread and butter when I work. My old jujitsu teacher always taught me that when you are faced with an opponent that is too big or skilled or difficult to defeat, you do not attack the whole opponent. If they are stronger, or more skilled, or otherwise superior, then attacking them directly is futile. What you should do is attack a small, manageable _piece_ of the opponent and work on that. In the case of vampires, I do not try to kill them, killing them is far too difficult; I try to damage them, and that is much simpler.

But how do I hurt him if he won't come in the cave? I could hear him out there singing "Danny Boy" quietly to himself; mocking me and reminding me he was still out there at the same time. The Redhawk was usually a very good start, but outside the cave he had a lot of room to move around. Hitting a vampire with a bullet outdoors was a losing proposition. They are too fast and their reflexes are too good. My other gear consisted of some 40mm HE rounds and a "bloop gun" launcher for them, some C4 and detonators, an AA-12 automatic combat shotgun, CS grenades, flash-bangs, and some other assorted non-lethal ordnance. The single shot grenade launcher was not going to be loads of help here. I needed him to hold still long enough for me to hurt him bad enough, and the low-speed 40mm grenades would be laughably easy to dodge for him.

My eyes fell on one item. It was the device I had put to good use on Velasquez earlier. The beginnings of a desperate idea began to foment in the back of my head. With this in mind I resolved myself to going out there and dealing with Mr. Frost the old-fashioned way; and I intended to win. It was a silly, macho idea, but I was out of options and it sounded like fun. To hell with the consequences, it was either stay in here until I starved to death or he figured out a way to get in, or go out there and have it out with the bastard. I began to work quickly on my preparations, while starting a running harangue of Frost to keep him occupied.

"Hey, Frosty! Why did you want to keep Rafael alive anyway? He was a dirtbag and you know it! All this talk of doing good and you keep that piece of shit alive? What's the story?"

"Mr. Martin, why does it matter? You must come out at some point, and then I will kill you, so why bother?" Frost sounded bored, but he was still very close to the entrance. I worked faster.

"It's been bugging me. You gave me a big speech about what we could accomplish, and yet a white-slaving, drug-peddling hedonist like that is given a pass? It doesn't add up. Maybe if you were more forthcoming, I could have trusted you." I was nearly done.

"Martin, you may not realize this, but you can't just go around killing 'bad guys' willy-nilly. There are rules, and stratagems. My people had plans for mister Velasquez that you have now ruined. Furthermore, the blame for his death will be upon us if I do not bring them your corpse to prove our innocence. I wish to see order and honor returned to our race, but what you will bring is strife and civil war. You must be controlled or destroyed, Mr. Martin…you are too damned unpredictable."

"That is a fact, Mr. Frost." I strode out of the cave and stared levelly down on Frost from the lip of the cave. He grinned up at me.

"My, aren't you the dashing one! A knight in plastic armor!" he exclaimed when he saw me. I was covered head to toe in black nomex armor. It was periodically and liberally braced with ballistic plating, and underneath it was sophisticated reactive gel. I wore a helmet and gorget of the same. My helmet was patterned after the kabuto samurai wore in feudal Japan. It protected my head and covered the back of my neck all the way down to my cervical vertebrae. The facemask had thick goggles reminiscent of German mensur face gear, and an armored rebreather mask. For all intents and purposes, I closely resembled a reject from a bad sci-fi movie, but altogether it represented nearly a million dollars' worth of the most sophisticated armor in the world. More than one vampire had broken both claw and spirit against this armor, and I was about to add another, I hoped.

"So this is how you survived this long!" He seemed almost gleeful, "Absolutely amazing! I suppose if I just pop up there to break your neck, I'll get one of those nasty shocks, won't I? No, thank you."

Faster than I could blink he grabbed a 40-lb piece of the igneous landscape and threw it at me. It impacted dead center on my chest and threw me onto my back. He was on top of me before I had settled and tossed me down the ravine away from my cave. "You won't be dragging me in there tonight, Mr. Martin! I know what happens to little flies when they come into YOUR parlour!"

When I hit the ground it was only by purest dumb luck that I did not land on one of my own mines. I looked up to find I had been tossed nearly 75 feet downhill. Frost was on me again instantly and lifted me by the helmet. He twisted the helmet furiously, attempting to break my neck, but the helmet and gorget are connected, and he only succeeded in twisting my body painfully. Five seconds into this battle and it was already gone to hell. Wonderful.

"Your armorer is a _genius_ Mr. Martin!" he cackled, and slammed me into the ground with bone-crushing force. My armor was designed for exactly this sort of abuse. It's sort of an inevitable side-effect of my chosen career, but Frost's strength was simply enormous. It was nothing like any other vampire I had faced. He was really pushing all the limits of my gear.

"It seems, Mr. Martin, that your nasty little electrical device is broken!" He tossed me against a boulder with enough force to turn my ribs to splinters if not for the gel under-layer of my armor. "For you see, no matter how I thrash you about, I remain un-shocked! How shocking!" He laughed at his own joke, for that alone I was going to kill him. "More's the pity for you, I should think!"

It was true that there had been no discharge, but that was because he had not tripped the sensors while grounded. He kept fucking throwing me around, when what I needed was for him to be touching me when the sensors tripped. By hitting me with the rock first, he thought he had damaged it. It was very clever of him, as it precluded him having to touch me, but it had led him to an incorrect conclusion: my batteries were showing full charge and both capacitors were ready to fire. Unfortunately, Frost was not cooperating. He was smart enough to avoid grappling with me, as well. He had obviously done his homework, and a cautious vampire was something new and terrifying for me. Instead of being a charging lion into the hunter's trap, he was a frustrated seagull trying to open an oyster by dashing it against the rocks. I was not enjoying the role of oyster one bit; I had to get him to fight me up close.

I managed to get my hand on a grenade in my belt just as Frost threw me again. It was all I could do to hang on to it when I hit another rock. My armor was beginning to show signs of failure, as viscous white fluid began to weep from the seams. Some of the gel packets were starting to rupture, and that was a serious problem. Without them, the impacts would rapidly turn my bones and organs to mush. I was running out of time. Frost was right on top of me again when I managed to pull the pin. I didn't even know what kind of grenade it was, and I didn't care, I needed two fucking seconds reprieve from the thrashing I was taking.

I was rewarded with a loud "pop" and a large cloud of CS tear gas. Frost immediately dropped me and staggered back, sputtering. Without a pause I hauled the Redhawk from the holster and put three rounds right into his face. The effect was rather less dramatic than I had hoped. Typically, the 400-grain depleted uranium bullets rip through even vampire flesh to leave horrible exit wounds; however Frost seemed to be made of some unusually stern stuff. I expected most of his head to be removed and/or pulverized; what I got was three holes in his face and some ugly, oozing discharge. That was about it.

He howled like a wild creature and lashed out at me with all his speed and force. While I certainly hadn't done as much damage as I would have liked, I had succeeded in blinding him completely, and this saved my life. His blows missed me by a wide margin and gave me the time I needed to put a round through his left knee. Again, his strength was astounding, as the he managed to stay on his feet after having the joint all but destroyed by the powerful revolver.

Before I could get off a fifth shot, his hand found a rock the size of a microwave oven and threw it in my direction, missing by a wide margin. I thought nothing of it until a large explosion from behind threw me forward and into Frost. Clever bastard; he couldn't see me but he could still smell the mines! When I collided with Frost he seized me with a vice-like grip and snarled, "I think I'll keep the pistol as a trophy, Mr. Martin." The Redhawk fell from my numbed fingers as his grip on my wrist tightened enough to stiffen the gel and cut off the blood to my hand.

He raised me above his head and I mentally prepared for what would happen next. He was blind until his eyes healed, so I knew he would not throw me away again and risk losing me. That was the good news. The bad news was that this was going to hurt like hell. With tremendous force he slammed me against the ground. My poor, abused armor barely survived and I blacked out. However, Frost's good, tight, grip provided a perfect conduit for the 250,000 volts of electricity discharged by the capacitors in my coat to travel at tremendous speed through his hands and out through his perfectly grounded feet. I don't remember the discharge itself (the impact from his slam had me completely out of it for at least a few seconds), but when I came to, Frost was howling on the ground a few feet away from me. Both his hands had been vaporized by the blast, and charred stumps were all that remained.

From under my coat I removed the device I had prepared and waited for his charge. Against most other vampires, this is the point when I would probably move in to finish my target; but based on what I had observed of my opponent, I knew Frost wasn't done yet. While other vampires had gone down with less damage than what he had endured, Frost was special…I had figured that out already. If I had not hurt him enough, he would still have the speed and strength to crush me. As it stood, my armor was in very rough shape, and I had no confidence in its ability to continue absorbing this kind of punishment. No, I would play it cautiously. Sure enough, only few seconds after the shock, his cries quickly became chuckles as he rose to face me.

"Ohhhhh, _very _good, Mr. Martin!" He said in a low, dangerous voice, "you are _very _good, indeed!" His face was beginning to heal, but his eyes were milky white gelatinous orbs, and he still appeared to be blind. His grin was terrifying. "Don't worry, Mr. Martin. I can hear your breathing now, and smell that delightfully clever liquid from your armor. Most intriguing technology you have, sir. Is that why your bones don't break? I knew the shell was going to be tough, but I could not figure out why you were not being crushed inside of it. Now I know. _Very_ impressive."

What was he waiting for?

"Mr. Martin, I will be frank with you," Frost sat down heavily on the ground, "I really have no interest in killing you. I was never sent to kill you, and I did not care one whit about Rafael Velasquez." He sighed and leaned against a rock. "The truth is, Mr. Martin, forever is a long time, and I have no hobbies. It is true that I was a great assassin, and I have longed for a quarry that could make me feel like the old days. When some of my race pointed me in your direction, I was very excited." He chuckled and then coughed, "You did not disappoint, Mr. Martin, that is a fact. But now we find ourselves at the ends of our respective ropes. I don't think your magnificent armor can take a whole lot more abuse, and I know that most of my energy will be needed to heal my face, hands and knee. We are two tigers that have wounded each other far too grievously to continue. One of us will die if we keep at it, and for the first time in 300 years, I am not sure it won't be me. I don't know what other nasty tricks you have up your sleeve, and you can't be sure how much strength I have left. You've already figured out that I am tougher than the usual lot you tussle with."

He was suddenly on his feet, and I braced myself for my last gambit: a monofilament line stretched between two tungsten handles in a garrote. Hopefully, he'd be slowed enough by his injuries for me to get it in place when he charged. The high tensile strength of the line plus his speed should be sufficient to amputate any part of him that hit it. Hopefully, I'd get him before the impact killed me.

Frost did not look like he was about to charge, though, "But I find myself realizing something Mr. Martin: I don't really _want_ to die yet. I had thought I'd be Ok with it, even that I _wanted_ it. I know I am not afraid of it, but I think I am not yet resigned to death. I suddenly find myself thinking that perhaps this tedious existence is going to get a little less tedious with you around, sir. He sighed again, "So I offer you this: Your secrets are safe with me, Mr. Martin. I will not discuss your wonderful little toys with my kind. I will not interfere with your hunts in any way. I will tell my people that I could not best you and that I no longer care to try. This will make you a legend among my people, I assure you. My skills are much respected, and you having survived me will make the very thought of you the most terrifying thing in the world to the vampire race." His mangled face contorted into the approximation of a sterner countenance, "In exchange for this, you will be more selective in your quarry. Those of my kind who do not feed on humans will be left alone, and even protected by you. You will be sure to avoid their homes, and hunt only when you are absolutely sure your prey is a murderer. If you do this, I will not come for you, and I may even aid you when it serves my purposes. If you do not, if you kill even one 'vegetarian' vampire, then I will come for you again, and we will play this game to the end. I trust we have an understanding, Mr. Martin? Otherwise, we can continue or little waltz whenever you are ready."

I allowed myself to breathe for a moment. This was something new. I had never heard of vampires feeding only on animals, but I supposed it was feasible. Truthfully, every vampire I had killed to date had been a man-eater without question, so it had not occurred to me that others might forswear human blood. What would define my crusade? St Martin de Tours was the patron Saint of soldiers; was I fighting a war against the entire vampire race? Did it matter what they ate? They were all still vampires, after all. St. Martin de Porres would have battled only the sin itself. What kind of killer would I be? Am I a warrior, or an exterminator?

I looked over at Frost. We really were much alike. He had had the same revelation battling me that I had battling him: we were not quite ready to give up the ghost just yet. Despite our personal pain and desire for some sort of iconic death, we had each accidentally discovered a reason to keep living. When I looked at Frost, I could see the same indecision, and even trepidation (dare I say fear?) about what would happen going forward that I myself faced. It is one thing to try to die, and quite another to try to live.

"I believe we have an understanding, Mr. Frost," I replied after a long pause.

"Excellent!" his jovial tone had returned as abruptly as it fled. With the understanding between us solidified, the terrifying vampire assassin was gone, and in his place materialized a chatty British dandy. I swear that was the most terrifying transformation of all. "You will not object if I stay here until my eyesight returns and my knee heals?" He began to walk towards my cave. " The hands are going to take _days _to return. Mind those mines! I don't suppose you'd tell me how the electrical device works? I thought I had it figured out, but," he waved his stumps," I guess not! And that revolver! What a thing of beauty! .454 isn't it? Excellent choice! It's exactly what I'd have used for this sort of thing. Oh, and you simply must tell me w_ho_ makes that delightful armor of yours? The kabuto is a nice touch…"

I groaned, "I should have killed you…"

His laughter boomed through the predawn gloom and echoed across the Montana wilderness.


	3. Baltic, Connecticut

It was nearly noon when my van finally bounced and rattled up the old logging trail to the campsite. It was one of those delightfully brisk, gray December days in Eastern Connecticut; when the very air itself threatens snow, but nary has a solitary flake arrived yet. I used to love those days as a kid; the days when you just _knew_ that there would be no school in the morning, but the marvelous little white motes had yet to show. Now, with the halcyon days of my youth behind me, I just wanted to get unpacked before I was snowed in at the campsite. I wasn't particularly upset about the potential for being stuck; I knew I'd be a few days here at the least. My gear was a wreck, and my recent encounter with one Mr. Frost had all but destroyed my armor. Harold was gonna be so pissed about that, unfortunately. The suit was his masterpiece, and he takes it personally every time I scratch the damn thing.

The damn thing _always_ took a beating, but this time it was a nearly destroyed. It would need a complete overhaul; and furthermore, I needed new tricks. That Frost character had almost figured out the shock batteries, and mines were just too easily detected. Not to mention the fact that these higher-order vampires were just too tough and strong. I needed to re-think some of my strategies, if I wanted to go after more substantial foes.

With a sigh I opened the door and stepped out of my 1985 Chevy Gladiator conversion van. Oh yeah…million –dollar armor, and van worth 5 grand, that's how I roll. As soon as I left the heavily-heated vehicle, the cold air hit me square in the face. It was revitalizing. So much of what I do is about darkness, and death, that these rare moments of community with life are far more substantial to me than I'd ever realized. When you dance with the devil himself every night, you damn well learn to appreciate the cool winter breeze. I stretched in place for a moment, just working the kinks out of my sore shoulders and enjoying the scenery. We were deep in the woods of eastern Connecticut, surrounded on all sides by two thousand acres of swamps, thick forests, and old glacial rock ledges. In front of me was an Adirondack lean-to (which is just a folksy name for a log cabin with 3 walls and an open façade), and a firepit with a wood shed. I had camped here many times as a young man, and its solitude and remoteness made it ideal for my purposes now, both tactically and emotionally.

I walked into the lean-to and sat down on the low canvas cot inside. The place was clean, and mostly devoid of dust, so I knew that either Sam or Harold was already here. I stomped my feet on the plank floor and shouted, "Come on up, assholes! I ain't unloading this shit by myself!" I was rewarded a few seconds later by the sound of the bolts unlocking and the cleverly concealed hatch opening.

A four-by-four foot section of the floor flipped open on hydraulic pistons revealing a steep stairway to an underground bunker. The sound of footstep on the metal stairs told me it was Harold who was coming up. Like a cartoon mole, his round, bespectacled face emerged from the open hole in the floor, and he grinned at me warily.

"How bad is it?" was his greeting.

"Great to see you too, Harold. Come see for yourself," Oh man, he was not going to like this. We strolled over to the back of the van and I opened the doors. I dragged out the large wooden crate and placed it on the frozen ground. Quickly working the fasteners, I wrestled the lid off and revealed the condition of Harold's masterpiece.

The cuirass that covered my torso was fitted in two molded pieces of Nomex on Kevlar weave, with seams under my armpits and down my sides. These seams had split and the underlying reactive gel pockets had ruptured. The ballistic plate pouches were mostly torn, despite being made of Kevlar. The Nomex structure of the piece was mostly intact, but serious stress areas were showing on the chest and sides.

The leggings were no better. The reactive gel had leaked out through ruptured seams on both thighs and the seat, and the stiff armor plates were cracked and deformed.

"Ho-Lee shit" was all Harold could say when he saw it. He turned his scruffy face to me and asked, "What happened? Did you take on a whole group? Get hit by a bus? Land on one of your own mines?"

"One. Vampire." I held up my index finger to emphasize the point, "One."

"Jeezis!" exclaimed Harold, "How is that even possible? Nothing we've seen so far should be able to do this kind of damage," he gave me a stern look, "until now I guess. Are you alright?"

I grinned, "Of course, Harry! I ain't lucky enough to die just yet!" I lifted my shirt and showed him the purple-black bruising over most of my ribs and lower back, "After the gel packets started to rupture, it got bad. Fortunately I am as resourceful as I am good-looking."

Harold snorted, "I agree that you are neither resourceful nor good-looking. Thankfully, you are alive, and whatever monster thrashed my state-of-the-art armor is dead."

"Uhmmm….about that…" I started, "yeah…he's not dead, actually." I did my best to appear sheepish.

"Fucking great. Let's just unload the gear, asshole."

When everything was inside, I related the tale of my disastrous Montana hunt. Despite nearly wreaking the gear, I managed to kill one vampire and form a tentative alliance with another. Of course, it was an alliance based entirely on each participants' lack of confidence in their ability to destroy the other, which means it was about as reliable as a minimum-wage teen-aged employee. Still, it may prove beneficial.

Far more disconcerting to Harold and me was the concept of vampires arranging pre-positioned food sources. The now-deceased (re-deceased?) Rafael Velazquez had a system for acquiring vast quantities of blood and storing it. Furthermore, he was managing this without attracting media or law-enforcement attention. I didn't like it.

Harold placed in very pragmatic terms. "It's a natural evolution," he started, "any system that is allowed to operate unobstructed will evolve more advanced techniques for survival. Humans are hunter-gatherers by nature, but when was the last time _you_ went out and killed your own supper?"

The man had a point. "Stalking and killing individual humans is a risky and inefficient method for acquiring food. It makes perfect sense that clever vampires will have developed a system for mass-producing their food sources; almost certainly for profit I might add."

"Logistically, this means maintaining and/or farming viable humans and regularly extracting their blood. That's easy enough. Doing it without being noticed? That gets tougher. I'll have Sam start digging through the Red Cross records and all blood-gathering charities and companies. Let's look for something anomalous."

When Harold got going, it was pretty hard to stop him. That is the way of the ultra-brilliant. He had lost a mother and two sisters to vampires seven years ago, and had directed his not-inconsiderable resources towards the destruction of them ever since. Harold was a genius and self-made multi-millionaire who had deduced the nature of his family's death with astounding rapidity. A consummate strategist, he immediately discarded the thought of securing justice through mundane channels, and instead sought out the perfect instrument for his own revenge. That's how he found me. It was only through purest luck that he managed to find me before I killed myself going off half-cocked against a superhuman army all by myself. At that point in my life, I was an enraged old soldier looking to put the hurt out on my enemy and damned be the consequences; but Harold knew what it was going to take to wage an effective campaign, and he planned meticulously. Most of what we knew about vampires was a direct result of Harold's obsessive research and study. Certainly Harold's gift for strategy and ingenuity were second to none, but he lacked any skill for actual combat tactics, and was never really the rough-and-tumble type. That's where I came in.

His mechanical acumen and knack for weapons development blended extremely well with my combat and clandestine service experience. Harold knew how to make a plan, and I knew how to make it _work._ When we added the investigative and research skills of our third member, Sam, we ended up with a perfect synergy of skills and abilities. By combining technology, strategy, research, and ingenuity, we hit the vampires where they are weakest: complacency.

Vampires are not terribly creative or clever. This is not to say that they are stupid, but theirs is a society without disease, adversity, infirmity, or any real problems. If not for the institutionalized murder, vampire life would be damned idyllic. They are an organic system with very little reason to innovate or evolve. Without necessity, there is very little incentive for invention, and as such, the vampire society has very few radical thinkers, creative strategists, inventors, or innovators. They are already as evolved as they need to be, and thus they tend to be very complacent and resistant to change. This is the complete opposite for our little group. We would be helpless against the sheer physical and organizational superiority of the vampire race without the technology of Harold, the research of Sam, or the tactical skills of Martin. It was a concept that had worked, so far.

We needed to elevate our game though. After five years of killing individual vampires, all we had managed to accomplish was to eliminate the young, slow and stupid ones. We still hadn't even been able to _find_ an elder vampire, or even scratch the surface of their organization. Thankfully for me, the next phase of our operation was mostly up to Sam and Harold, so I got to rest up. My injuries, though dramatic to look upon, were not serious enough to require hospitalization. As such I spent the next two weeks resting and training.

Training was constant for me. Vampires had enough physical advantages without me being out of shape on top of it. An abusive set of hobbies and careers had left me with some nagging injuries now that I was past thirty-five, and every year it got harder to stay in peak condition. There was the tendonitis in my right shoulder from repeated dislocations during my competitive judo career as a teen-ager, my bifurcated meniscus from a bad parachute jump in Afghanistan, and permanent arthritis in my hands form a spirited if ultimately unimpressive amateur boxing sojourn in college. We certainly can't forget the permanent back pain from a freak weightlifting accident in my late twenties, either. That one was my least favorite. The tightness and nagging, dull ache bothered me just about every day. It was maddening.

After about a week at the campsite, which I had spent most of practicing with my various weapons and tools while my body recovered, I decided to go outside for a physical workout. My bruising had turned yellowish-green, indicating good healing, and I could finally breathe without pain. I decided to start with some light calisthenics, for a warm up. This alone brought fresh lighting-strikes of pain through my bruised ribs and damaged torso muscles. Goddamn I am getting too old for wet work. I should train some not-too-bright eighteen-year-old adrenaline junkie to do the rough stuff from now on. But I guess that would ruin the fun for me. More's the pity, I guess.

After the warm-up, I went to work on the heavy bag. There was no room in the bunker for a workout space, so I had to hang the bag from a tree. Yup, million-dollar equipment and I have to hang a ten-year-old canvas heavy bag from the limb of an old sycamore. We really need to discuss the budget around here. Something ain't right.

Soon, my muscles started to feel better as I ran through the combinations: Jab-cross, jab-cross-hook, jab-cross-hook-cross. Each blow thudding solidly against the canvas. At 220 pounds with a slightly soft middle, I was not the fastest fighter in the world, but I hit pretty hard (for a human). I was neither as young, nor as lean as I was in my youth, and despite the December chill, a light sweat began to form under my sweatshirt.

Jab-cross-hook-cross, my hands cried out, "Smack! Thud! Thwap! Thud!" answered the heavy bag.

Elbow-hook-overhand-hook, "Whump! Thwap! Pow! Thwap!"

The cadence was like a metronome in my head, and invisible opponents met their doom with each string of blows. Punches, kicks, elbows and knees blended into a carefully orchestrated symphony of destruction. I switched the rhythms to avoid predictability, and began working in circles around the bag, using footwork to carefully place myself at the opportune range for each blow.

This was my quiet place. This was the closest to meditation I ever got. There was nothing but the bag and the rhythm and me. Angles and vectors converged in my head, complex equations resolving effortlessly into intricate patterns of techniques, designed to confuse, harry, and bludgeon the enemy into submission. It was a perfect science, and I was a Ph.D.

After a half hour, the sweat was pouring furiously from my pores and my breath escaped only in ragged gasps. Still I pushed. I cannot afford to be tired. I never get tired. "We don't GET tired! The other guy gets tired!" My old coach's words mocked me inside my head incited me to increase the speed and complexity of my combinations. I was a whirlwind, but never wild. Despite the speed and intensity, every blow landed exactly where and when I told it to.

At one hour my body gave up. I was hacking breaths and losing control of my arms and legs. My power had dropped to pathetic little taps, and the bag hardly wiggled in response to my impotent aggression. It was time to wrap it up. My body twinged with the promise of pain later, but for now the endorphins did their work admirably and I felt better than I had in days. I slumped down onto a bench made from an old tree trunk and opened a bottle of water. A few refreshing gulps later, and the rushing of blood in my ears had quieted enough for me to hear the sound of slow clapping from the woods.

The blood drained from my face when I saw the giant figure leaning against an old red oak fifty yards into the treeline. Dammit. Frost was here. He must have tracked me somehow. Not that I put a huge effort into losing any form of pursuit after Montana. I didn't usually leave anything alive behind me to follow, so evasion was never a high priority. That was an oversight that could cost us all.

"Very nice!" he boomed in his deep British accent. He was wearing brown corduroy pants and a white linen dress shirt. Like all vampires, the cold had no effect on him, and he made no pretense to needing a coat. He had his usual wide grin and cocky swagger in full effect, though his impish humor only _just _took the edge off his enormous stature. At fifty yards, he had already penetrated most of the defenses. I still did not know how he got past the motion sensors. He did it in Montana as well. I'd have to figure that out…if I lived.

"You have enormous potential, Mr. Martin! You are no pro, but your skills are quite impressive. With 50 or 60 years training, I could make you the greatest killer to ever walk this planet." Oh goody. Backhanded complements from a seven-foot immortal assassin. What next?

"What can I do for you, Frosty?" I attempted to sound glib, but I was secretly frantic. I had no armor on, and no weapons within reach. Stupid, stupid rookie mistake. This time it was I who was complacent. If Frost wanted to, he could end the threat to his people right now, and I couldn't stop him.

He wrinkled his face at the joke on his name, "You may have guessed that I have more than one reason to be here, Mr. Martin. The obvious reason was to let you know that I know where you go when you are not killing vampires. I also know about your companions and their contributions. But then again, that sort of thinly-veiled posturing would not be conducive to the health to our burgeoning partnership, now would it?"

Faster than I could blink, he was sitting on the log next to me. I took great pride in the fact that I neither flinched, nor defecated myself when he did so. Trust me, it took some effort. Nonchalantly, I offered him a bottle of water.

"No thanks, I ate on the way over." He grinned ferally, and I surmised that our abundant local whitetail deer population was now less one member. He continued without missing a beat, "Since we have determined that I am NOT here to imply that I can get to you whenever I need to," he cracked his knuckles and bounced his eyebrows knowingly, "then there is only the business at hand."

"Do tell, Mr. Frost," I gestured non-commitally.

"I have implied to you already that there are structures within our society that work with, and sometimes against, each other. There are families, clans, organizations, and other delineations within the overarching vampire community that all have their own agendas. Whenever we encounter each other or are forced to interact outside our sub-group, we all follow certain behavioral guidelines to avoid conflicts. You above all people, understand how destructive we can be as a species, and war amongst ourselves would be…shall we say, _dramatic_."

I shrugged, "I bet. The last thing you guys want to do is wake the neighbors, I gather?"

"You understand me exactly, Mr. Martin!" He was the very picture of jovial amicability. I swear that was the scariest thing about him. When I faced him, he had single-handedly trashed the armor that had withstood every other vampire I had faced, he _laughed_ after stepping on a 4 lb anti-personnel mine, and took a round from the Redhawk in the face at point-blank range. Now he was sitting six inches from me and chatting like we were old college buddies. It was terrifying.

"Now the group _I _am working with currently has some issues with several other groups. Of course, I could go and handle the matter personally, but unfortunately, I enjoy a certain…notoriety amongst our race, and such action on my part could result in an escalation of tensions between several groups. This would never do, Mr. Martin, never do at all. But I surmised, since you and I are _such_ good friends, and since I think you will find your little triumvirate in philosophical alignment with my group's needs..." His voice trailed off, expecting me to fill in the blanks.

It didn't matter whether it was 2009 or 1599, human or vampire, this little dance was always the same. How do you make the enemy of your enemy your ally? I was glad to know that some things were universal. "I see. You want me to take someone out for you, don't you?" I laughed. "Imagine that! Vampires sending a human to take care of another vampire! You gotta appreciate the irony of that, Mr. Frost!"

His own laughter dwarfed my own, "Mr. Martin, you have no idea how much mirth I myself enjoyed at the prospect you so succinctly stated!" His laughter shrunk to a chuckle, "But you are uniquely suited for this purpose, and I assure you, you will find it the sort of task you will take great relish in executing. It is a prize you might never come to without our assistance, and it is well worth the effort." He continued faster now, "Because of _my_ notoriety, _you_ now enjoy a certain notoriety yourself." He leaned in close, "You now hold the honor of being the scariest thing in the world to the vampires. An honor I held, until recently. The best is that they don't even know WHAT you are! I have taken a lot of joy in building your legend, Mr. Martin. They suspect magic, or worse in how you operate. The fact that you are a normal human is simply unacceptable to them. They can't even fathom it." He leaned back and stretched, an oddly human gesture, "I have even kept your secret from my own people. It is simply too good a thing to give up right away. As a result, you have them all terrified now. They see you in every dark corner and under every bed. Even the werewolves are speculating about you now, and they hate us even more than you do. It has been a great pleasure building you up Mr. Martin, and the result is that you are now perfectly situated to rid us of our little problem, and do both of our races a great service in the process."

"I am glad to be such a source of mirth for you, Mr. Frost. Let's talk turkey, because it just so happens, that I may have need of _you_ for something as well." If anyone knew how to get at the vampire blood distribution network, it would be Frost.

He tilted his head to one side and his grin grew even more (if possible), "I am sure we can help each other out, Mr. Martin. After all, we are the very best of friends, aren't we?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Frost!" I turned and called over my shoulder,"Harold, you can go back in now, it's OK."

Frost whirled around to find a grinning Harold thirty feet away in the lean-to holding a small remote in his right hand. Frost turned back to me with a look of alarm on his face. I winked and pointed to the woodshed. "Inside that shed is a Dylan minigun with motion and bio-recognition sensors tuned to your unique physiology, Mr. Frost. It has 100,000 rounds of tungsten jacketed depleted uranium rounds in there. You are fast, but are you faster than a rifle bullet? You are tough, but are you tougher than 3000 rounds a minute?" I let my own face get smug, "Maybe you are, maybe you aren't, but if you come here again without calling first, you might have to find out."

His grin returned, but not quite so blithely, and when he spoke his voice had an incredulous timbre to it, "You had me covered the whole time!"

"Well, it took about 15 seconds for Harold to calibrate the sensors to your biological signature, but after that, yeah." I stood up and stretched. "Tell me how your people acquire blood and distribute it, and then we will discuss your little problem." The fact that I had absolutely _no_ idea exactly _when_ Harold had realized I was in trouble was something I wasn't going to mention. Harold could have still been calibrating it when I noticed him for all I know.

He looked at the shed, sniffed, and shook his head wryly, "You are a particularly terrifying human, Mr. Martin."

"It's a gift, Mr. Frost, a gift."


	4. Miami, Fl

I absolutely _hate_ hunting in tropical areas. Yet, here I was. While the spring evenings in Miami may not be the hottest in the world, they positively _swelter_ underneath thirty air-tight pounds of body armor. The only thing better than collecting cramps in the prone position watching a warehouse all night long is basting in your own juices while doing it. De-licious!

It was four AM and a slight drizzle was putting the excruciating cap on an otherwise mind-numbing evening. My erstwhile informant, the giant vampire assassin named "Frost," had led me to my particularly disturbing target du jour. I don't trust Frost yet; it's just as likely that he'll lead me into a trap as anything else, but his info seemed good on this one. Having Frost show up at the bunker rattled my cage as well. We were definitely going to need some contingency plans. Self-recrimination aside, what really pissed me off is that I probably never would have found this guy without his help. I really was not comfortable with how much we were coming to rely on him.

According to Frost, Marcus Antonio purported to be an Italian immigrant, with a rather lucrative importing business. He moved mostly in medical supplies and pharmaceuticals, which seemed benign enough; except that it was a perfect cover for trafficking in "feeders."

Feeders… I consider myself a man who has seen some horrific things. I have been hunting vampires for five years now, and in that time I have observed behavior that was so repugnant it defies easy description from the alive and undead both. But this was the most nauseating thing I had encountered so far. "Feeders" are human beings kept by vampires for the exclusive purpose of providing steady blood supply. Frost had explained to me that vampires will harvest these people (often homeless) and permanently damage the brains, turning them into vegetables. Vampires do not like drugs in the blood, so the brain damage is often done by drilling into the cerebellum indiscriminately to destroy the frontal lobe. The victims are then tube-fed and kept alive in perpetuity to make blood.

It was one of the most horrific things I have ever heard, and thinking about it made the bile rise in my throat and a growl start building deep in my chest. Well now, that's certainly unlike me: wrath and disgust are luxuries I can ill afford in my line of work. It does not behoove me to be emotional, when pursuing creatures that can smell fear, and _hear _anger. When I am on the job I need to be a machine: a machine that hunts animals. _They_ are the animals. Don't misunderstand me, this is not a philosophical consideration…The disconnection and distinction is important, dare I say, crucial for my survival. My only advantage over my prey is my calm, cold, detachment. The day I try to match their savagery is gonna be a rough day for me.

The ridiculousness of this train of thought gave birth to a wan smirk, and a thankfully, a sardonic end to my reverie. Fucking melodrama; I've never had a use for it before, and I certainly don't have time for it now. I must be getting old. Nothing left to do but hang up the suit and tell boring stories to teenagers at high school assemblies from now on.

Nah. I got a few more hunts left in me. Hell, I'm just hitting my stride, really. For the thousandth time that night, I checked the Redhawk. I hefted the big revolver from its perch under my left armpit, and let my hand settle into its familiar place on the grip. A full-size Ruger Super Redhawk, I had christened it "Big Daddy" when I bought it for dear, boar, and elk so many years ago. A true .454 Casull, it was originally imagined as a hunting revolver for large and dangerous game. Factory rounds for this model deliver the same energy at 50 yards as a high-powered hunting rifle. Tragically, that wasn't good enough for my purposes; a flick of my thumb releases the crane and the cylinder swings out smoothly and silently, revealing the six 410-grain, .454 Casull rounds nestled neatly in their chambers. Steel-jacketed, with a depleted uranium core, each unique hand-made round is capable of passing through an inch of steel before dropping a charging rhino. Since bullets don't really do a lot of damage to vampires, they generally don't put a lot of effort into avoiding being shot. More than one vampire has found (much to his/her dismay) that the Redhawk is altogether a different animal than the usual ballistic nuisance. A vampire's highly dense skin and tissue is tough enough to minimize the penetration and trauma of regular bullets, but it might as well be made of soft cheddar when Big Daddy speaks.

The Redhawk and its destructive payload is the only bit of my kit that I maintain myself. I wouldn't be allowed to touch _anything _if Harold had his way. Nevertheless, every spring, cog, cam, screw and sear had been lovingly nudged, adjusted, filed or modified by me, and as such I felt a special kinship and an ultimate reliance on the big lug.

A gentle tap from my thumb snapped the cylinder back into the frame, and five degrees of rotation brought a round into battery with a soft, almost imperceptible click. It found its way back into the holster under my left armpit almost of its own accord, endless repetition making the motion completely subconscious.

I sighed. Past 4 AM and my target was still a no-show. This guy was old, and cautious. He kept very few patterns, did not socialize much, and having his own supply of feeders, he did not go out to hunt. When he did venture out, he did so with no less than three vampire bodyguards. I did not like my chances against more than one vamp at a time, so many of my tactics did not apply to Antonio, and it was becoming frustrating. I was going to have to try something different. Different meant unfamiliar. Unfamiliar meant dangerous. I hate "different," and "unfamiliar," but "dangerous" I was fairly used to at this point.

As much as I loved spending all night outside a warehouse waiting for someone to walk into my carefully constructed traps, it looked like I was going to have to get proactive. I spent the next day sleeping and planning. Inspiration struck me just before sundown: I had been going about this all wrong.

It was a question of defining victory conditions. I did not need to hunt down and kill Antonio per se. Killing Antonio certainly removed _one_ vampire from the mix, but that was all it did. If I disrupted his operation however, not only would it flush Antonio out, but it would eliminate much of the food supply for the Southeast US. Now _those_ vampires who relied on the easy, no-risk food supply would be forced to come out of hiding to find food. Who knows how many lazy, complacent vampires would then be exposed, and thus ripe for the culling. That's what my old CO called a "target-rich environment."

My real problem was how to bring down the operation without attracting the wrong kind of attention. I did not really want to have to explain to the Department of Homeland Security why I felt the need to blow up a warehouse full of medical supplies. It was just a little too noisy and terrorist-y for my tastes.

Arson was going to be the way to go. Since the front for this operation was pharmaceuticals, I didn't have to hunt too hard for a viable scapegoat. The world is full of radical anti-pharm groups, many of which felt arson was perfectly acceptable. I simply invested one afternoon in a Google search for a suitably radical group of big-pharm antagonists and figured out how to emulate their modus operendi. A liberal spritzing of their oh-so-puerile and poorly constructed propaganda (the flu vaccine has MERCURY in it! Morons. Not since 1955.) around the site, and a 12-page e-mail diatribe to the shell company's webmaster should keep the local PD from straining their resources on this case.

Of first importance during this operation would be my personal safety. While I freely admit to being a touch fatalistic, I certainly am not suicidal. Besides, HaroId didn't have the patience to train anyone else in how to use the gear. I figured the vamps would have a way of ensuring that a warehouse full of comatose human bodies never showed up in a fire-marshal's report; and if they didn't, well they were just stupid, then. Not my problem at all.

Derision aside, it was highly probably that as soon as the fire was deemed irrecoverable, they would set off a "gas" explosion of some kind eliminating all evidence, or perhaps they had the feeders stored over a lime pit. Whatever it would be, it would have to be significant, so distance was going to be of key importance. Strategically, I knew that if I created enough noise and destruction, the vamps would torch the operation themselves to ensure its secrecy, which meant I did not have to bring the whole warehouse down myself. I just had to make a lot of noise. I felt good about that…I can do noise.

Secondly, I needed to eliminate as many vamps as I could along the way. This was the trickiest part. I didn't like my odds with more than one at a time, but I almost certainly would have more than one to deal with once the fun started. I intended to be quite a distance off, but vampires are terrific trackers, and they can move frighteningly fast when motivated. I was going to have to count on their single-mindedness on this mission; but fortunately that was often a very good bet. I had a few tricks for when they arrived that ought to work just fine. I cracked my knuckles and called Harold.

Several weeks later, I found myself in the Florida woods assembling the pieces of our biggest and most expensive hunt ever. The reality of facing several camps at once had everyone nervous and redundancy was the name of the game. New strategies and new equipment were going to be employed, and Harold and I were edgy as all hell about it. I prepped my gear about 3 miles from the warehouse. We had selected a densely wooded area for staging, for when this little show got started, it was going to be rather noisy and we were counting on remoteness and foliage to keep from waking the neighbors. There was very little viable road access either, making any unlikely response by the local constabulary very slow in arriving, but this meant I had to lug all the gear from the road to the staging area by hand. The rough stuff had not even started yet and my back was already killing me. That's never a good sign.

I had a lot of prep work to do, and the sun was starting to set already, but there would be no profit in hurrying this job. First I placed two black metal boxes about the size of a shoe box on a heavy square steel base plate. I locked them in place with the attached clamps, and wired them to a plastic control module. Then, at the base of each box, I attached a 2-foot metal tube to a motorized hinge. Each tube was hollow with a diameter of about 3 inches. To the tubes I wired a small motor and cam, and ran that wire back to the control module as well.

A quick test run revealed that (naturally) I had run the wires backwards. I quickly corrected this, and soon my tubes were smoothly and silently traversing neat arcs pointing from 45 degrees over the horizon to nearly 90 degrees straight up. The result was what appeared to be a little battleship gun turret with two barrels pointed in the direction of Antonio's warehouse.

Satisfied, I unloaded what appeared to be ten little bombs. Or more specifically: mortar rounds. Each black little torpedo-shaped device had a round nose and three guidance fins at the back. These I loaded into the boxes behind the tubes, and closed the tops. With a satisfying "clunk," the magazines' springs moved the first round into battery within each tube. So far so good! I moved the arming switch on the control box from "safe" to "arm" and the little red LED began to blink furiously while it acquired a satellite signal.

The LED turned green after a few seconds indicating that the coordinates from Harold had been received, and that the weapon was ready to fire. Years ago, a mortar operator would have had to "fire for effect" and have a forward observer report hits back to him to determine how close to the target his rounds were falling. Then he would make adjustments and fire again, "walking" his fire toward the objective. God bless technology, now Harold's little satellite gizmos could drop each round into a gopher hole on the first try without scraping the sides.

With the high-tech stuff out of the way, it was time to prep my site for the inevitable vampire retaliation. I certainly could have rigged the mortar and just walked away, but the vamps would be on it in a hurry, and finding it might eliminate some of my supernatural mystique. I preferred that every time I executed an operation, the vamps were left with only questions, speculation and ashes. If they began to suspect that I was just a normal human, I would lose a valuable edge.

Vamps move fast and hard. They really are the ultimate shock and awe weapon; all speed and firepower. Strategy, however, was not their strongest suit. Neither was recon. Naturally, some of them were meticulous hunters of their prey, but rarely were they patient with an enemy. Relentless? Certainly. Inexorable? Damn right. Conscientious? Never. So I started with my usual 4-lb anti-personnel mines around the perimeter of my clearing. I also created a gauntlet of my monofilament line, strung tree-to-tree in a fairly random pattern. If nothing else, it would force my playmates to move more slowly if they saw it, and cut down on their freedom to flit around at superhuman speed. I'll take any edge I could get. If I was lucky, one or two would cut themselves severely. Here's hoping.

I added some new tricks as well. 1,000,000 candlepower strobe-lights, and several 18" deep holes with bear traps in them, which I covered with Styrofoam and dirt to conceal. In anticipation of a robust enemy response, my armor was souped up for this dance, too. Harold had added two more shock batteries to the coat, which gave me a total of four discharges before I was empty. My helmet had a powerful LED strobe and a pepper-spray applicator added as well, to increase my chances of surviving at close-quarters with cranky vampires. Also new was a pair of small compressed fluid canisters filled with concentrated hydrofluoric acid. These were strapped to the vambrace on my right forearm and terminated in a half-inch diameter hollow tungsten carbide needle that extended over my knuckles by about 3 inches. When the needles were compressed more than one inch, they delivered about 1 fluid ounce of hydrofluoric acid at nearly 200 psi. If I could punch hard enough to break the skin, the victim would be injected with an ounce of the most reactive acid on the planet. Harold's research indicated that this would _almost certainly_ incapacitate a vampire, but this remained completely untested. Well, no time like the present! All this was in addition to the 12-gauge stakers under my wrists, Big Daddy at my side, and a bandolier of no less than 12 various types of grenades. It was an impressive arsenal, but damn, this rig was getting heavy!

I could still move around, but I could tell that all the extra weight would tire me quickly. Probably best to avoid a protracted conflict, then. Of course, it's ALWAYS better to avoid a protracted conflict. With all this weighing on me both literally and figuratively, I activated the com mike and keyed up Harold.

"Ready when you are, Mom," I said.

"Fuck you, wiseass. Stay focused or your ass is grounded." Harold always got grumpy when he had to do field work. He was in the van several miles away monitoring everything via satellite, sensors, and remote cameras. He could even read all my vital signs via sensors in the suit. From the van he could control mines, flashbulbs, one turreted Dylan minigun on the roof of the van, and a pair of AA12 automatic shotguns on a remote turret between the van and me. He would be in charge of covering my retreat if things went well, rescuing me if they didn't, and picking up my remains if shit really got ugly.

He had a lot of expensive, hard-to-build toys out there, and he was worried about his babies. It always fouled his mood when beautiful tech got in harm's way. But as much as he loved his gadgets, he hated vampires even more; ergo he was perfectly willing to break his toys if he got to chew up some vamps along the way. Quite honestly, Harold's toys _always_ delivered when the shit hit the fan, and lord knows it was never boring to watch. Harold had managed most of his own hunts via remote devices before he met me; and while far more expensive then a grunt like me, the tech did a pretty good job of getting the job done. Too bad it rarely came back.

"Good to go, Mom?" I keyed.

"Let 'er rip, and good luck out there."

"Fire in the hole!" I hit the fire command and the little battleship turret whirred, clicked and let of a "_thunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunk!"_ as it spat ten little bombs into the air. The tubes started at a high angle and arced slowly to a shallow one as they fired, so the individual rounds' flight paths described discrete parabolas to impact at their assigned points simultaneously. Time to target was fifteen seconds, and I caught myself holding my breath. I must have been counting too slowly, because at thirteen seconds in my head the first muffled "WHUMP!" of an impact reached my ears.

"We have impact!" Harold called over the com. "Ten out of ten! Perfect shots! Infrared is showing multiple large fires inside the building! BooYah!"

"Tango's?" I said through clenched teeth, as the adrenaline began to rise in my bloodstream.

"None yet, field is…wait…Four signatures! Two heading this way, 130 miles per hour! 15 degrees north and 10 degrees south vector! They haven't spotted you yet!" When vampires crank up the speed, the quantity of air they displace, and the anomaly of anything moving faster than 70mph at ground level made tracking them by satellite fairly easy.

"Stay frosty! Tango south is slowing!"

I have no idea how the revolver ended up in my hand…I didn't remember drawing it.

"Heads up, Martin! He's onto you. Vector 1-8-0 degrees 140 miles per hour eta 12 seconds!"

One of them had picked me up somehow. Smell, telepathy, clairvoyance, whatever; it was always just a matter of time with vamps. As strategists they were mediocre, but as hunters, they were superb.

In twelve seconds I would know what kind of opponent I was playing with. If he was old enough to have seen combat, he would avoid the mines by smell…and that would slow him down. If he had never smelled C4 before, than he'd step on one; and that'd REALLY slow him down!

Harold knew enough to keep quiet at this point and let me work. Sure enough, my first dance partner streaked through the trees right on schedule, easily avoiding the mines. He leapt at me from 40 feet away, and moving at probably sixty miles per hour. I had an instant to see his demonic rictis loom huge in my field of view, and just enough time to realize that I didn't have enough time to do anything.

What happened next will haunt me forever.

He collided with a mesh of monofilament wire strung between the trees. It was simultaneously awful and awesome. The vampire did not just cut himself to ribbons; he _julienned _himself. There was a hellish spray of viscous, blue-black blood, and twitching gibbets of animated flesh sprayed like an overripe tomato whipped through a tennis racket. Greasy bits of vampire blood and flesh covered my armor, and I had to wipe my goggles down before I could see again.

"Holy shit!" Harold gasped over the mic.

"Sometimes you're the windshield my friend…" I mused over the open channel.

"Sometimes you're the bug!" Giggled Harold. I'm glad he was enjoying himself. I couldn't fault him…this was already going REALLY well. I had observed vamps re-growing limbs and huge hunks of flesh before, but I had never seen one rebuild itself from greasy chunks. A quick glance showed me that the largest chunk was most of a torso, but other than that, the rest resembled a big pile of salsa.

I didn't get the chance to muse on it for too long, because Harold chimed in at that moment. "Three tango's inbound. Vector 1-7-0 degrees 90 miles per hour, ETA 9 seconds!"

"First one, or all three?"

"Six seconds, nine seconds, eleven, MARK!"

I decided to take cover this time to avoid losing the initiative as I did with the first one. I crouched behind the bole of a fallen sycamore, and endured the longest three seconds in recorded history.

I was not as lucky as the first time. These vamps hit the perimeter 30 yards out and stopped. The first to arrive was the oldest. You can tell by how the others deferred to him. He was tall and lean, with long platinum hair and delicate, almost elfin features. He crouched like a gargoyle, but his head twitched back and forth like a bird's. I thought he was sniffing for the mines at first, but careful observation revealed that he was _listening_ for something.

His cronies were definitely younger. One was a hulking, bald stereotype of a goon; all menace and glower and the threat of impending mayhem. The other was a profile in youthful whimsy, with a lopsided smile and tragically hip fashion sense. Perhaps my natural aversion to their type reduced the effect of their glamour, because they both looked positively ridiculous to me.

The leader slowly made his way closer, stepping carefully around the mines at the outer perimeter. At 20 yards, he picked his way around the first bear trap pit without incident. At ten yards, he reached out with a delicate finger and touched a monofilament line. He pondered it a moment and plucked it gently like a guitar string, twisting his face into an expression both bemused and perplexed.

At this point I couldn't take it anymore and triggered a flashbulb. A 1,000,000 candle power bulb flashed five times in one second, lighting up the clearing like a thousand bolts of lightning. Bright lights don't affect vampires the same way they do you and me. We would be blinded for ten to thirty seconds by a flash like this, but vamps are different. Vampire senses are hundreds of times more sensitive than ours. They can handle all the same stimulus that we can, but if they are unprepared for sudden changes, the effects can be very painful. So the vampires were not so much _blinded_ by the flashes, as they were _stunned _by them.

All three screamed, and the leader reeled straight back and put his left foot squarely into a pit trap. The trap closed with a "clack!" on his leg at the calf, and a spring designed to incapacitate a 2000-pound grizzly bear drove hardened steal teeth deep into the cold alabaster flesh. He unleashed a scream that shook the leaves from trees overhead, and thrashed in impotent rage against his steel tormentor. If he thought about it for one second, he'd just reach down and pry the jaws apart, but I didn't give him the chance.

I leapt from my hiding place and carefully placed a round from the redhawk in his right hip. I was in full combat mode, and my senses felt as keen as theirs. My perception of time had become so dilated that I felt I could even match their speed as the instincts took over and my body did on its own all the things I needed it to.

The big bullet ripped into the hip and blew out a cantaloupe-sized piece of his right buttock as it exited. The part of my brain that was left to spectate wryly noted that I had in fact, "blown his ass away" and filed that little bit of infantile humor away for later retelling of the event. As I moved past him to my right, I put another round at the top of his right thigh, finishing the job of removing his right leg completely. His face actually became _more_ ashen as he slumped to the ground leaking precious blood in torrents onto the forest floor.

Leaving him alive and flopping around like a landed trout was a calculated risk, but I figured he was hurt badly enough that I could look to his partners. I had invested an entire four seconds after the flashbulb taking out the leader, and I could only hope that it currency well spent; as his cohorts were rapidly regaining their faculties. With any luck at all, they lacked his caution and experience and would fall prey to some of the tricks strewn about the battlefield.

Baldy seemed to be recovering the fastest, so I gave him a round from Big Daddy into the face. Hell of a shot at this distance, too. The entire right side of his head was shorn off, peeling him like an orange and leaving a gory skeleton exposed from the neck up on his right side.

Baldy dropped to the ground howling and Hipster picked that moment to move, and did he ever move! I felt the impact to my left side in a surreal sort of way. It was like getting T-boned in your car: It happens so fast that you don't even know that it hurt until after it's over. Basically I heard a thud and saw a flash of light and I was flying through the air to bounce unceremoniously back toward the fallen tree that had been my cover earlier.

As I reoriented myself, I realized that the shock batteries had discharged and poor hipster was burned badly on the face, chest, and left arm. In typical vampire fashion, he responded by charging me again and I never had a chance to try anything before he landed on my chest with enough force to knock the wind out of me…and set off another shock battery.

That's when things got bad. I had never had two shocks go of before and an unforeseen circumstance arose. My coat caught on fire. The coat itself was fairly fire resistant, but there were lateral lines and power supplies woven into the fabric that just couldn't take it, and they started to burn. For the moment, Hipster was no threat; frankly he was yowling, burned, and blind, and so I took a moment to lose the coat. This complicated things because the batteries were in the coat. No more electric armor for me now, which made it the perfect moment for Baldy to hit me from behind and try to crush the life from me in a bear hug. With the vamp squeezing my chest against his, arms pinned to my sides, I could not breathe. The reactive gel stiffens to prevent deformation of the armor under pressure, so I was not in immediate danger of having my organs squeezed out of my mouth like toothpaste from the tube, but it also prevents my lungs form expanding. My vision started to swim as I frantically wriggled in his grasp until my right hand was in front of my hip. With consciousness fading, I managed to trigger my staker. With a hellish boom, the 12-gauge blank drove a tungsten-carbide spike deep into my opponent and did much to loosen his grip; which is to say, I crashed to the ground in a most undignified manner. A quick glance showed me why. My stake had driven deep into Baldy's groin, causing him to sink to his knees clutching his crotch and yowling piteously. Right now the poor bastard was probably wondering how long it would take for his dick to grow back.

I didn't give him too much time to ponder it. I scrambled to my feet at drove a right hand into his still-healing face, getting a spike right into the eye socket. There was a slightly audible _pop_ as the hypodermic spikes over my knuckles delivered their payload of hydrofluoric acid, directly to the brain of poor old Baldy. The response was rather more dramatic than I anticipated. Baldy's one good eye rolled back in his head and he began to spasm violently. Very quickly this escalated to a full-blown seizure. I did not have time to watch this play out as Hipster was starting to recover. I quickly sprinted over to him and gave him the same treatment I had given Baldy using the left hand…and got the same response. I guess the acid was playing hell with the nervous system when delivered right to the head, and as Harold predicted, the acid continued to eat away at tissue even as the vamps would regenerate it. This meant that healing and regeneration would take much longer. Good.

The leader picked that moment to try to escape, holding his severed leg. He had figured out how to pry open the trap, but was struggling to manage one-legged egress. Vampire strength and speed make them very good crawlers and scuttlers though, and he was making good speed. But crawling and scuttling through a perimeter laced with mines is always poor strategy. He had no problems recognizing the mines before, but his fear and anger had made him lazy and/or forgetful. The first one flipped him into the air and blew his left arm off at the elbow, before depositing him on top of another mine which blew his remaining leg off. I ran over to where I had dropped Big Daddy and quickly put the last three rounds in the cylinder into the torso of the leader, for no other reason than to do massive damage and keep him from dragging himself away.

For the first time in the battle I took a moment to survey my surroundings. The first vamp was still in pieces, but I'll be damned if the torso wasn't starting to regenerate. Pink muscle and white bones were beginning to form at the shoulders and hips and skin was re-growing everywhere. Hipster and Baldy were still twitching, but Baldy's face was growing back. Poor Hipster was going to need a long time for his burns to heal. For some reason, vamps heal burns very slowly.

The leader was still moaning, but he had suffered so much damage at this point that he had no energy to move. All that was left to do now was mop up. I reloaded Big Daddy and started dragging vamps to the center of the clearing. Baldy got shot in the head in the process, as he still had some fight left in him. Hipster must have been pretty young, because he was still unresponsive, and the first guy? Well…he was still McNuggets. I did my best to get all his assorted pieces to the center. I piled those three together, put the white phosphorous to them and let the pyre get off to a good start.

Then I went for the leader. He was a mess, but the healing had already started. His eyes were open and blazing at me as I walked over. He coughed and spat black blood at me when I got close, "Don't you dare touch me, you worm!" His voice was shrill, despite being choked and garbled, "You are nothing to me! Peasant! You will burn for this!" I could hear the panic begin to build, and he began to thrash and claw at the ground in an attempt to pull away from me.

"Careful…mines." I said calmly. He stopped and sniffed about spastically, whipping his head back and forth. He looked back at me to find the barrel of Big Daddy poised to punch a hole in his forehead. He became very still.

"What are you?" He gasped, "What do you want?"

"What am I?" I had to laugh. "I'm food." I sniffed and cocked the revolver, "What do I want? That's a tough question. Let me ask you something…do you ponder the nature of desire when you hunt your prey?"

Realization broke across his face. He stuck his chin out defiantly and glared straight into my eyes. "No," he said.

"Me neither." I let the hammer fall.


	5. Corpus Christi, TX

Most people don't understand the real problem that pops up when you dance with the devil. It's not so much that you could lose your soul; there's a fiddle player named Johnny down Georgia way that pulled it off without a hitch. No, it's the fact that sooner or later, as you blithely waltz the night away, the old bastard is gonna want to lead. That's why I am sitting in a dive bar in Corpus Christi, pretending to swill cheap beer and enduring the hellish cacophony that can only occur while fifty drunk Texans belt out "I Got Friends in Low Places" with way too much enthusiasm, and far too little talent.

Frost was here, and enjoying himself immensely. He was comically out of place amongst the stetsoned wannabe's, tragically hip college kids, and the under-dressed cougars prowling the edges of the otherwise under-thirty, too-cool-for-school crowd. We must have presented a ridiculous sight to anyone who cared to observe us. On one side of the pitted and scarred high-top table sat Frost: nearly seven feet tall and having, for all intents and purposes, the physique of a comic-book character. Wide shouldered, narrow-waisted, and muscled to the extreme, he would have been hugely intimidating if not for his chiseled features and goofy, lopsided grin. He should have been hip-deep in young girls in a place like this, but they never seemed to notice him.

On the other side of the table was me. Six feet tall with my boots on, and just about 220 pounds, I looked like a teenager next to Frost. I am a big guy, and my physique, though large and muscular (if I do say so myself) was not quite as lean and bulky as Frost's. Well, nobody living had a physique as lean and muscular as Frost's. To be honest, as I soared past thirty-five years old, some softness had materialized in my belly, and showed no intention of leaving despite a fairly robust exercise regimen. My face was a bit weathered, with some scarring above eyebrows framing blue eyes sunk just a little too deep into the skull. I kept my dark brown hair cut short and severe, and the only modification I had made to my appearance since leaving the CIA was magnanimously allowing myself to grow a scruffy, if cropped beard. I had been told that it was the face of someone just a little too old for his age, and I supposed I agreed with that assessment. Being mortal is not for sissies, people; when you play as hard as I have, it starts to show.

As I sat here enduring what had to be a rough approximation of the seventh ring of hell, I passed the time speculating on Frost. How could Frost be so inconspicuous, when he was so damned … well …conspicuous? I had a theory about Frost. He never seemed to set off my expensive detection devices, and he never seemed to attract any undue attention in public despite his freakish physical presence. Now, all vampires develop some degree of unique ability (generally a psychic or physical attribute) when they are turned, usually an amplification of some skill or ability they had as a normal human. Frost was (according to himself), the greatest assassin, human or vampire, to ever live. Something told me that camouflage had been a great skill of his even before becoming a vampire, and now he was probably completely undetectable unless he chose to be. He had already shown that he could easily pass undetected through sophisticated devices, and travel through public places completely unremarked despite a physical presence that would be noted anywhere. That was something I was going to have to have Harold work on as part of our contingency plans.

But Frost was the reason I was here. I owed him. He had done me a favor in revealing the location and nature of a human blood supplier in Florida, and with that information my team had managed to completely disrupt the food supply to the entire Southeastern US. We never got the ring-leader, but hundreds of vampires now had to leave their safe havens and _search_ for food instead of enjoying the risk-free blood supply culled from thousands of kidnapped, lobotomized humans. It was a good op, and now I had to pay the piper.

Frost had his own targets, and tonight we were stalking one of them. Frost was not particularly forthcoming at first about his reasons for wanting this vamp taken out, but I thanks to my research guy, Sam, I already had most of the story. Like many men's problems, it all started with a girl.

Jeanie Burns was a vampire I'd have never found on my own. Like so many of the older ones, she did not appear outwardly rich, or flashy, or overt in any way. But she was smart. She kept a low profile, hunted infrequently and over a wide geographic location, and she covered her tracks well. She controlled a large territory in Texas, and no vampire hunted, lived, or operated in her area without cutting her in. Those who broke her rules disappeared, those who played by her rules were fine. She was the Al Capone of southern vampires; and rumor had it, she was pissed at Frost.

Frost was the kind of remorseless killing machine that liked to stick to a code. I knew from my own experience that when you found yourself engaging in morally questionable behavior on a regular basis, you either become a monster, or you develop a code. That code can be arbitrary, ambiguous, and indecipherable to others, but it's your damn code and it keeps you together mentally. Adherence to the code means that you still stand for something. Frost had a code, and he only killed when the target was challenging, dangerous, and interesting. He didn't even eat people. Frost had revealed that Burns had, like many other vampires, made several attempts to put him on her regular payroll. Frost was strictly freelance, and his own code had been incompatible with her rather Machiavellian needs. To say that his declining her offer had been met with some animosity may be considered an understatement. Like any good mobster who got frustrated, she put out a hit.

Apparently, vampires aren't supposed to kill each other willy-nilly. Sure, it happened all the time, but it sounds as if there were conventions to be considered when doing so. Burns had consolidated enough power to insulate her from most grievances from her own kind, and there certainly were no courts for the aggrieved to appeal to; but she overstepped herself when she tried to have Frost killed. Frost, who is normally a very jovial sort, practically growled when he told the story of the night four vampires came to kill him. The only time I ever took on four vamps at once, it took three weeks of planning and enough ordnance to stop a mechanized division. Frost made it sound like a particularly unpleasant hangover.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that this incident had occurred over forty years ago. Vampires aren't normally very patient, but they excel at holding grudges it seems.

So why were we sitting in a crappy bar in Corpus Christi? Jeanie Burns likes fighters. Some vampires can be very picky eaters. When I had asked Frost about that, he explained it pretty simply. Feeding on a person is as much an emotional and psychic experience as it is a physical one. Some vampires feel nothing when they feed; others are highly sensitive to the psychic "flavor" of their victims. Certain types of people taste better to some vamps than others. Any blood will do for sustenance, but why eat Ramen when you can have steak? Burns liked the flavor of combat veterans, fighters, brawlers, scrappers, cops, and thugs. Basically, the badder a mutherfucker you were, the more she wanted to eat you. Astute readers will begin to see why Frost needed me, and understand why I did not love the current plan.

All modesty aside, I am a pretty bad mutherfucker. I spent fifteen years killing people for Uncle Sam both in and out of uniform, and not only am I the only human being to have killed a vampire in five hundred years; I have killed twenty-two of them. As Frost had put it, "Mr. Martin, as far as we are concerned, you are the most dangerous human on the planet, and possibly the most dangerous _thing_ on the planet. To even the most obtuse vampire, you positively _radiate _violence and menace. I can smell your rage at a thousand yards. The only reason vampires don't disappear the minute you show up in their city is that you are often mistaken for a rabid animal, psychically. We just can't comprehend a human who does not fear us. When Jeanie gets a whiff of you, she is going to want to rape and eat you on the spot…and not necessarily in that order."

So I'm bait. I hate being bait. Talk to earthworms about the joys of being bait. Furthermore, the nature of this hunt meant no armor, no shock batteries, no Big Daddy. Goddamn I felt naked without that revolver. Of course, I was not completely helpless. Harold had whipped up a couple of carbon fiber dirks, essentially 8-inch double-edged fighting knives done in space-aged materials rather than steel. Flexible, lightweight, and capable of holding a nearly monomolecular edge, Harold was pretty sure they would go through vampire flesh without too much trouble. I was also packing a stun-gun that Harold had souped up. It didn't pack the punch of the industrial shock batteries in my armor, but it oughtta hurt like hell, even for a vampire.

So, poorly armed, under-armored, and generally pessimistic out the whole operation, I turned to Frost and asked, "So when does she show up?"

He grinned, "She keeps her own hours usually, but I can't imagine it will be much longer."

"Won't she recognize you?" I asked.

"When the time comes, she won't even see me," he gave me a smug look and pulled daintily at his comically effete martini.

"I figured as much. When she asks me to leave, your oversized ass better be real damn close."

His laughter boomed, "Don't worry, Martin, I won't let the mean lady eat you. Do you want me to swoop in before or after she demonstrates her enthusiasm?" His eyebrows waggled suggestively.

I decided to rise to the bait, "Depends on how she looks."

"See for yourself, Romeo," He nodded towards the door.

I turned to look, and it was worth it. She stood there, framed in the doorway with her two bodyguards by her side. The guards were devastatingly beautiful female vampires; dressed to distract men with copious quantities of strategically exposed bits of alabaster flesh. But they were nothing compared to Jeanie Burns. Vampires are always attractive. It's a device to attract and distract prey; and Jeanie was very distracting. Maybe five and a half feet tall and built like a Frank Frazzetta painting, she was the very avatar of sexual allure. From chest to waist to hips, her curves were quite simply _impossible_. Brown hair to her shoulders in soft ringlets framed a soft, oval face with big brown eyes and a tiny nose above pouting, petulant lips. She was dressed simply in unfeasibly tight low-rise jeans and a plain white tank top that strained to contain breasts that would have caused permanent back problems for most women. She could have bought the whole outfit at Wal-Mart for forty bucks, and she patently outshone any Hollywood bombshell in a five-thousand dollar gown. It was breathtaking; and I felt myself wanting her to notice me sooner rather than later. I wanted her to talk to me and casually put her hand on my thigh while laughing at my jokes. I wanted her to hang on my every word and take me back to her place where we would…

And just like that, the spell was broken. As gorgeous as she was, I suddenly remembered that it was all a show just to lure in prey…stupid prey that thought with its dick, no less. It was insulting to my intelligence and my purpose. My buried rage boiled to the surface and I indulged in some puerile angry internal muttering, "I ain't the prey, bitch. You are." As soon as I snapped out of it and my hunter's instincts kicked in, her head snapped to the side and our eyes met.

"Show time!" I heard Frost whisper in my ear, and suddenly an oversized frat boy wearing a shirt covered in Greek letters behind me crashed off his stool onto the floor. I turned to look and he bolted up screaming "What the fuck, asshole!" and much to my surprise, he swung a meaty right fist right for my head.

Oh god. Frost you jerk. I suddenly realized what the plan was at that moment. A quick look around confirmed that fully half the people in the bar were wearing identical fraternity shirts. Frost was going to make sure Jeanie Burns saw how tough a bastard I can be, even if it meant I had to fight a bar full of drunken idiots. I had to concede that the plan was a good one, but I hadn't fought in a bar in damn near twenty years. The fallen frat boy was bigger than me, but leaning more toward fat as opposed to muscle. Of course, at close to two-eighty, he could probably still hit like a truck. I pinned my left palm to my temple and slipped inside his slow, wide, looping, haymaker and drove my right fist into his solar plexus with the full weight of my body.

He folded over with a whoosh and a gurgle, and plummeted unceremoniously to the floor face-first as his legs turned to jelly. I looked up to the sea of fraternity punks and cracked my knuckles. I locked eyes with the biggest one there and did my best Josey Wales voice.

"All right kids. I am getting too damn old for this dance. If you ain't gonna do shit, pack up your buddy and walk. If you _are_ gonna do shit, then let's get started. It certainly looks like you tools could use the education, and I sure as hell need the exercise."

I'll admit I was laying it on a little thick, and things got kind of out of hand after that.

I had been fighting vampires so long, I had forgotten how easy fighting humans can be. Most young males seem to believe that all you need to win a fight is a big punch. While you certainly _can _win a fight with a big punch, it really is way more complicated than that when you know what you are doing.

Ninety percent of all bar or street fights begin with a looping right punch. Most refer to this as the "sucker punch." It is delivered without warning and generally speaking, whoever shoots first wins. Because of this, most people never really get beyond this concept. Real fighters know that straight punches are faster than arcing ones, so the first two frat boys learned that their big looping punches arrived just _after_ my crisp, straight, overhand rights. A broken nose is a wonderful reminder of poor technique.

After those two I stopped waiting for targets and went looking for them. When one guy started to move to my right I hooked him around the head with my right arm and grabbed his right wrist with my left hand. With a bend of the knees and a twist of the hips, I sent him over my hip and crashing into the jerk sneaking up behind me. They both went down in a tangle of arms and legs and I was onto the next one before they settled. I was a tornado of fists, knees and elbows for the next few minutes as I hewed my way through the eight or nine frat boys still standing. They weren't clever enough to pile on me all at once, and I was smart enough to keep moving to the extent that doing so would be difficult. Keeping a table or other obstacle between me and most of my dance partners was a little tricky, but my naked aggression and commitment to violence seemed to keep the frat boys a little hesitant to engage. Like most packs of vicious cowards, they were far more enthusiastic about stomping someone when the threat of personal harm was non-existent. Despite their superior numbers, no individual member of their group was committed enough to the prospect of kicking my ass to want to get hurt in the process. Every competitive fighter in the world knows that winning a fight gets a lot easier when you don't worry about getting hurt.

Case in point, the cost to myself of administering a category-five ass-whupping to room full of 21-year-old males could be measured in a nasty bruise spreading across my ribs on the left side, four bleeding knuckles on each hand, what was probably a sprained wrist, and a split lip. Not too steep a tab, but I would definitely be feeling it in the morning.

I spat blood onto the floor, now littered with sobbing, groaning, writhing bodies, and surveyed my handiwork. I had to admit, the whole row had felt pretty good. It was nice not to have to worry about superhuman speed and strength, or regeneration, or stepping on one of my own mines. It was simple, cathartic, almost relaxing to wail on some regular people for a change.

My head was brought back into the game rather quickly when I felt soft but cold hands on my arm; and a breathy voice in ear my whispered, "Nice work, superman…but you'd better clear out before the cops arrive." Jeanie was making her move, I guess. She looped her arm around mine and pressed herself against me. Her right breast pushed against my tricep as she steered me toward the door. "Come on. This place sucks anyway. Let's go somewhere else!" I was finding it hard to concentrate. Her presence was overwhelming, and I found myself imagining what she looked like under those clothes. Would her body be soft? What would it feel like to touch her?

I had to get a grip. What the hell was wrong with me? As we sped out the door with her bodyguards in tow, I struggled to focus. She must be turning whatever whammy she did up to eleven. I wondered if she did that consciously, or if it reacted to her own excitement. Intentional or not, I was losing my grip. We piled into her car, which I only noticed in passing was a late model Cadillac limousine, and sped out of the parking lot. I was alone in the back with Jeanie, and the two guards were in front. I could not focus on which direction we were going, or whether or not Frost was following. I just wanted to be there with Jeanie.

She crawled into my lap and settled astride my legs facing me. Her breasts were situated right in front of my face and she inhaled dramatically, making them heave deliciously. This was insane. Why couldn't I focus? She isn't the first good-looking woman I've ever dealt with, so what's the problem? Usually vampire mind-games don't affect me, either. Harold thinks it's because I'm too angry and focused most of the time. It wasn't working right now though; I just wanted to bury my face in the heaving cleavage two inches from my nose.

"Where did you learn to bang like that, hero?" She purred, "That was really something!" She had started rocking and grinding her hips slightly. My physical reaction was predictable and obvious. I won't belabor it with description here. She giggled girlishly, which unfortunately caused her to jiggle girlishly.

My mind was fuzzy, but I struggled to answer the question anyway, "Afghanistan, Mogadishu, Czechoslovakia, and Kansas City. You know…the usual spots." Good god, I was flirting! Goddamnit, this monster was going to eat me and I was flirting with her! FUCK!

"Got a name, hero?" she breathed. Her hands were in my hair, and I could feel her breath on my forehead. Like a fucking teenager, my eyes were glued to the front of her tank top as her surging breasts strained heroically against the thin cotton of the hated garment. Her nipples were taut and clearly visible through the flimsy fabric. I've never loathed cotton so much in my life.

"Martin…" I managed to wheeze.

"Well, Martin," She laughed huskily, "my name is Jeanie." She pulsed her hips into me and pulled my head into her welcoming cleavage, "pleased to meet you."

I was lost. My hands moved of their own accord and pulled the straps off her shoulders, freeing the most perfect breasts I have ever seen. I buried my face in them and sent my hands over every inch of her body that I could reach. She was still rocking and grinding her crotch against mine and I felt a rising, almost psychotic need to be inside her. I was breathing heavily and, starting to frantically tear at her clothes. She responded in kind and matched my intensity. Forgotten were the two bodyguards in front, gone was the Cadillac, and I no longer cared that she was going to kill me after. I just had to have her. I hadn't been with a woman since my wife died, and I never wanted one as badly as I wanted Jeanie Burns.

In the fiery maelstrom of runaway sexual heat that was engulfing me, something cold happened. I saw my wife, lying on the bed with most of her throat missing. There was a teenage boy crouched over her and both were covered in blood. That was the first vampire I ever killed. I remembered shooting it over and over again, hacking at it with a splitting maul, and burning it. I remembered how I felt when it was over. I remembered when my heart died.

And then I remembered who I was. When the fog cleared I was stripped to my jeans, and Jeanie was down to just her red lace panties. We were a horizontal tangle of arms and legs on the back seat, and Jeanie was undulating underneath me making little moaning noises. I was horrified when I realized how cold her skin was to the touch. How had I not noticed that?

I realized that without my gear, I had no hope of taking out three vampires. I hoped like hell Frost was nearby, because if I stayed in the car much longer, I was going to fall under her spell eventually. Resigning myself to go down swinging, I began kissing down her body, tracing the curves of her belly, and working my right hand down to my right boot. Gingerly, I gripped the loop at the end of one of my carbon-fiber dirks hidden there. I slid my left hand under her panties and gently pulled them down over her hips. She lifted her hips to let them slide off more easily, and that's when I shoved eight inches sharpened carbon-fiber under her chin and into her brain.

Her eyes loomed wide and she spasmed violently. I chose to go under the chin because it would sever her windpipe. She couldn't scream, and though the blade wouldn't kill her, it severed her spinal cord and destroyed most of her brain stem. She seized violently underneath me, and I could only try to hold on like a dammed rodeo cowboy and hope that her bodyguards thought it was all part of the festivities. When she slowed, I pulled the knife out and put it through her eye, destroying her frontal lobe and she went completely still.

I knew I probably had less than a minute before she regenerated enough to fight back, at which point I was a corpse. So I grabbed the stun gun from my other boot and held it in my right hand. Then, still huffing and panting like I was still at play on the back seat, I reached through the partition, around the passenger-side front seat, and ran my hand lasciviously up the side of the bodyguard riding shotgun and let it rest on her left breast. She turned to me with a smile, and I shoved the stun gun into her face and set it off. The little device didn't have the offensive punch of my armor's equipment, but it appeared to be enough to blind her and render her unconscious. That was all I got. The driver swung back with her right arm and caught me across the chest. I hit the back seat with enough force to make me see spots. The car came to a lurching, screeching halt and the passenger side rear door blew outward. I was yanked clear of the car with the force not unlike a parachute opening at low altitude and smashed into the ground. Just before I passed out I saw that we were in a heavily wooded area along an old dirt access road, probably a million miles from anywhere.

I don't know how long I lay there, but soon I was treated to the sight of a naked Jeanie Burns standing over me, one foot on my neck, the other crushing my right hand and the stun gun it still held. Even under these circumstances, she was beautiful. She was going to kill me, but she was going to look good doing it.

"You are amazing, hero," she growled. "Just what the hell did you think you were going to do in there? Take us all out with a knife? Are you some sort of sicko serial killer or something? Like preying on pretty girls, do you?"

I grimaced and tried to flex my broken hand. "Just the blood-sucking psychopathic ones, dear. You know, the moonlight on your skin is really quite breathtaking, but your fangs are really prominent from this angle. Not a good look, lady."

She laughed, it was like glass breaking, "You know what I am?"

"Yeah. You're a raging bitch."

She ground her foot into my neck, "Funny man, are ya?" She stooped down and straddled me, "it's a shame, hero. Things were going so well back there, I might have kept you for a while." She sighed with a little disappointed moue, "But now I have to torture you until you tell me who sent you." She sat back, clasped her arms above her head, arched her back, and let me have a good look of all the real estate that I had just resisted, "so sad!" she pouted.

"Sorry babe, I'm over you already. Do whatcha gotta." With the places I've been, you need a lot more than vague threats of pain to get my attention. I was getting a little anxious for Frost to show up, though. I'll tell you that for free.

"I like the tough guys better anyway," She purred, a feral grin creeping across her face, "Big, violent men who know how to hurt and how to kill. The ones who have seen death close up and spat in his eye, they taste the best."

"That's why I used him," I never thought I'd be glad to hear Frost's vaguely British basso profundo, but it was like angels sighing right now, "Mr. Martin has done all that and more. Not only has he spat in ol' Grim's eye, he has probably kicked him in the balls a few times, too." He boomed comically, "You always went for the burly, scarred, antihero archetype, Darling. It's a real weakness of yours."

Frost was standing on the roof of the limo. Smiling crookedly and looking absently amused. To their credit, there was no hesitation from Jeanie's retinue. The bodyguards moved like lightning, converging on Frost like twin cruise missiles from either side. They were moving almost faster than the eyes could follow, but Frost caught them casually by the throats with either hand. They screamed like banshees until Frost casually snapped their necks, silencing them. Then he nonchalantly hurled one against a tree so hard the body split in half, the other he decapitated with a two-handed wringing motion, not unlike someone tearing the tail of a lobster.

"Frost," I croaked, "Took your damn time, didn't you."

"Silence, worm!" Jeanie barked, eyeing Frost carefully, "I'll kill your pet before you ever get to me, Frost. You aren't _that _fast."

"I think you over-value my bait, Miss Burns, and underestimate him as well." Frost, as usual, seemed to find this all endlessly amusing, "Mr. Martin is more than capable of taking care of himself."

She laughed, "Doesn't appear that way right now, does it, Darling?" He is all mine to play with for now, and he does appear quite helpless, so spare me the ominously vague innuendo, and trot along, now. If you really didn't value him, I'd be dead already."

"Oh but you _are _dead already, my dearest Miss Burns. You just don't know it yet!" Frost replied with uncharacteristic solemnity; and I shoved my other dirk up from beneath her into her right ear as hard as I could. The carbon blade sank nearly five inches into her skull, and I hoped desperately that I had hit the brain. Vampires can take insane amounts of damage and stay combat –effective, but the brain still seems crucial for motor control. She started a shriek, but it got cut off as she was torn away from me and slammed into a tree. When the motion stopped and the dust settled, Frost had her pinned against the bole of an enormous red oak, gripping her arms at the wrists while she struggled vainly against him. She must have been quite strong, for I could see the tight cords of the muscles in Frost's hulkish arms straining to keep her immobilized.

"You have been very naughty, Jeanie; and not just to me," Frost growled through his teeth. Jeanie took that moment to try to head- butt him, but missed by a country mile. Frost continued as if nothing had happened, "No less than six families have authorized this action, Jeanie. You have no friends anymore."

Jeanie struggled furiously for another minute before slumping against Frost in apparent defeat. She looked up at the giant assassin with big, scared eyes, "We could be friends again, Nikolai. We were once before. It used to be so good." She was choking up now, fear and finality making her frantic, "I know I've been awful, but I get scared and angry and react badly. I can make it all right if you help me; you once said you'd do anything for me!"

Interesting, so there was more to this story than just mob politics. I didn't know Frost had it in him. Although, when I looked at it logically, if Jeanie really liked the tough guys, then Frost was probably the top contender for many years. It made sense that they'd have a history.

"There was a time I'd have walked through hell for you, Gwinivere," Frost said softly, then with more fire, "and then I _did_ walk through hell for you, remember? People don't really understand what that means when they say…but I do now. Because of you." Frost released her left arm so he could gently cup her face with his right hand. Jeanie made no move to escape.

"I remember," she blubbered, crying now, "I was foolish, Nikolai."

"Yes. Yes, you were," he whispered back. Then he took her into his arms for a tender lover's embrace. It was frightening in its incongruity. She did nothing to resist, or try to escape. She just stood there in his arms crying quietly. After a moment he pulled away, whispered something to her softly, and with a flick of his wrist like the flutter of a hummingbird's wing, tore her head off. He managed to let her fall without getting blood on himself (How the hell did he accomplish that?), and he turned to where I was still sitting on the ground.

"Your equipment is behind the car, Mr. Martin. We should probably get started on the pyres, before her friends pull themselves together."

"You all right, Frost?" I don't know why I was suddenly concerned for him, but that whole scene was bizarrely tragic.

"Much better now Mr. Martin," he dusted his hands off on his pants and grinned at me, then he bent over and gripped the limo by the frame rail under the passenger door, and with no apparent effort at all, tossed the 4500-pound car thirty feet across the road into the ditch. It crashed onto its roof and came to rest looking for all intents and purposes like it had gone off the road of its own accord. "Muuuuch better now!"

This shit gets weirder every day.


	6. Baltic again

The mood was somber when I returned to the campsite. There had been a three-hour conversation about the hunt for Jeanie Burns between Harold and me the night before, and he was not happy with the de-briefing. Several aspects of letting me climb into a locked car with a psychotic, psychic succubus hell-bent on draining my blood, alone and unarmored, had not sat well with my team. Both Sam and Harold also agreed that this hunt had relied entirely too much on the assistance of Frost for success. Truthfully, I agreed with that. Frost had swooped in at the nick of time and casually killed three vampires with his bare hands to save me in Corpus Christi. I was never much of a team player in the field, and relying on a vampire assassin for back-up was simply too unnerving for me. A decision needed to be made.

On one hand, Frost had provided a lot of good info for the Antonio hunt. That had been hugely successful for us, and devastating to southern vampires. Furthermore, in the Burns hunt, I was bait, and there was no real reason to save me if he didn't want to. I had completed my part of the operation (Namely distracting her so Frost could get close. Apparently they had a sordid history, and Frost couldn't get close to her without her knowing he was there) when he arrived, and he had not needed me anymore at that point. If he wanted me dead, he had lots of opportunities to make that happen.

On the other hand, he was a vampire; and an admitted killer and nihilist. Several centuries of guilt-free killing can make anyone a questionable ally; no matter how you discriminate your targets. I have myself liberated several dozen men from the confines of their own mortal coils, and despite my fervent belief that they were all "bad," even _I_ have to concede that your conscience can develop calluses.

Can we trust Frost? I was disinclined to trust anyone, ever. Really. I'm a cynic that way. But as a resource, Frost was _phenomenal_. He was physically the strongest and most durable vampire I had ever encountered. On top of that, he was nearly undetectable when he chose to be. He knew many vampire secrets, and so far he had been willing to help us. Well, on _his_ terms, anyway. It was very probable that he was using us for his own purposes, and that made us all nervous. None of us knew what those purposes might be. It was a conundrum. Our team was purely club-level amateurs before he showed up, but now we were taking out major players.

I brought the van to a lurching halt in front of the campsite. Harold and Sam were outside cooking burgers over the fire pit. Harold was his usual, quasi-frenetic mole-man, talking animatedly to Sam about some obscure technical minutiae that were almost certainly of no interest to Sam at all. Sam, a tall, lanky, balding man, was seated on the low rough-hewn oak bench pretending to be interested. A lawyer in the real world, Sam didn't ever seem to look the part. His clothes never seemed to fit him right, no matter how hard he tried. His gangly limbs seemed to always be sticking out from sleeves and trews alike, and shirts and jackets hung from his lean frame like they were two sizes too big. None of this bothered Sam in the least. A man of nearly preternatural focus, Sam was far more interested in finding stuff people didn't want him to know than he was in tailoring his suits. He was the team's chief (only) researcher and investigator; and probably the most frightening man in the world when going through public records. If you did it, Sam could find it. If you hid it, Sam would dig it up. If you ran, Sam would catch you. It's what he did as a lawyer, and it's what he does now. Sam was a master at finding the vampires hiding among us. As he himself pointed out, it's not so tough when you know what to look for.

Immortality has a few tricky legal ramifications. To avoid these inconveniences, many vampires simply become transient, moving around the country randomly on foot, feeding whenever and wherever. Those are tough to find unless they get sloppy, but they don't really get the chance to establish power bases and expand their influence, either. The ones that stay in one place for a few decades are far more dangerous. They consolidate influence and resources, and use them to secure food, safety, and most importantly, anonymity. Anonymity is neither cheap nor easy to obtain.

To live anonymously, they need to have driver's licenses, avoid tax evasion, and register with social security. That's a little tricky when you don't age or die. Eventually, someone will notice that the guy born in 1867 is still registered to vote in 2010. So they fake records. They fake deaths, births, name changes, social security numbers, ad naseaum. It's tricky business, and though they have gotten rather good at it, Sam can usually catch it if he gets a clue where to look.

"My god," I barked from the window as they looked up, "it's lunch time with Ichabod Crane and the Mole Man!"

"From the nearly-headless horseman I have to endure this?" Sam shot back.

"Awfully chipper for a guy with a broken right hand, Pal," was Harold's humorless retort.

I held up my bandaged right hand, "This little bruise? It's nothing! A flesh wound, I say!"

Harold was not rising to my bait, today, "This shit is not funny, Martin. It's not just your ass or your war; do you have any idea how difficult it would be to replace you?"

Sam made a dismissive gesture, "Settle down, Harold. When you want to strap on the armor you can run the tactical side of ops. We agreed that Martin makes the calls in the field."

"Guys, let's not do this dance right now," I got out and shut the door with a crunch. I gotta replace this piece of shit van. "I'm hungry and tired, and we need to discuss Frost far more urgently than we need to discuss my tactics in the field. Which, by the way, are not open for discussion anyway. My ass in the field means my call in the field. Period." If humor wouldn't settle Harold down, then maybe asperity would.

Sam handed me a sad, overcooked and under-chees-ed burger , and I tore into it hungrily.

Harold took the hint and started in on Frost, employing his customary, logical approach. "Frost is an asset. We know that much. The real question is to what degree and in what manner he is a liability."

"He is stupid-strong and durable," I mumbled through a mouthful of charred beef, "But he only wants to play his way and on his terms. We haven't been able to count on him, tactically or strategically. He's random."

Sam chimed in, "He is a complete unknown. I can't find any evidence of him, or activities that could be attributed to him anywhere, even when I know where to look. I don't like not knowing what his angle is."

"He appears to be completely innocuous when he chooses to be. Electronic devices can pick him up, usually, but he could be sitting next to you in a movie theater, and you'd never look at him unless he wanted you to. He's not invisible, but he becomes completely unnoticeable," Harold added, "I, for one, don't particularly relish the thought of bumping into him at the bunker."

"I still want to know how he beats my motion detectors," I pondered aloud.

"It's because you place them at eye level, Mr. Martin." DammitI That voice! Like a British James Earl Jones, from above us.

"If you always place them at eye level, then all I have to do is stay above them. Like so," He was in a red oak, up about fifty feet, perched casually on a branch in jeans and sandals, feet swinging jauntily. He looked ridiculous, a seven-foot giant dressed like a college student hanging out in a tree.

"Of course, it also means I am stuck up here" he gestured to the tree," for unless I have greatly misjudged him, I suspect dour Harold probably has an unpleasant surprise or two waiting for me down there." He pointed at the campsite.

"Four," was Harold's terse response.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Frost broke it first, "Could I perhaps persuade you gentleman to let me down for a little tete a tete? I feel positively silly sitting up here. Though I must confess, the view from this angle really brings out the vein in Harold's forehead. Rather impressive, that."

"I can hit him with a 40mm airburst round from here. I just need one second to adjust the angle of the launcher…"

"Easy, Harold," I assuaged him. "Shut it down. Let's have a chat."

In a moment, and with much grousing, Harold had disengaged the defenses, but not without leaving the Dylan mingun locked onto Frost's signature. If Frost decided to try anything, the turret-mounted, seven-barreled cannon would shred him more or less instantly. No vampire can outrun 3,000 rounds a minute, and no vampire was durable enough to survive that. If I could figure out how to carry one in the field, I would. Of course, with that much lead flying around the clearing, it would probably shred all of us, too…but them's the breaks.

"What brings you out here, Frost?" I asked brusquely, "We don't exactly do high tea around here."

Frost flashed that big, goofy grin he loved so much, "I felt that if you were going to discuss me, I should at least get the chance to participate. Dirty pool talking about a bloke behind his back and all."

"Bullshit!" Harold fired back immediately, "You are just fishing for info. What's your angle?"

Frost's brow crinkled, "At first, I really had you pegged as the good-natured one, Harold. You intellectual types are rarely so…cranky. Naturally I want info. I am a hunter and an assassin. Info is my greatest asset. Hasn't Martin explained to you how we work?"

"I know how you work, well enough."

I decided to interject, placing my hand on Harold's shoulder and gently easing him back down onto the log, which I don't believe even he realized he was not sitting on any more, "Enough, Harold. This is a parley. So let's talk." I turned to Frost, "We don't know your agenda, and we don't know where you stand. If you are going to keep popping up, then you need to come clean. Why would a vampire want to help vampire hunters?"

He shifted (uncomfortably?) in his seat, "I asked you once, Martin, what your mission was. Do you remember?"

I nodded.

"Are you doing this because you hate vampires and want to kill them all, or are you doing this because you wish to right wrongs and bring justice to the dead? If you are just out to kill vampires, then you are no better than any other racist and I will end you all right now. We can all die together in this clearing when Harold's popgun chews us into little pieces because you three are still crying over your lost loved ones."

My jaw tightened. How was the wound still so fresh? Before I could retort, Frost continued, "But if you have turned your rage into something productive; like justice, then well, that I can get behind."

Frost was suddenly very intense, "I know what I am, gentleman. I am a killer. I have no sympathy or remorse in me for those who I have ended, and I am no hero. But years ago, and I mean _hundreds_ of years ago, there was honor among my people. We had restraint, and to be realistic, human lives were much cheaper, then. But what we are now? Hedonists. Roving packs of wanton killers simply feeding whatever desire that pops up. Most of us are little better than animals, and those that consider themselves 'elevated' are just spoiled children living to satisfy their own whims. We build petty little empires of vice and iniquity, and waste our immortality on nothing. We are too strong, too well entrenched, and too comfortable to grow as a people. We are degenerating into the very thing that sustains us. I have no love for 'vampires'. I may not be human any more but I am still a _man_; I do not eat my fellow man to sustain myself_. _I do not kill simply because I can. Even as a human I always felt my kills served a purpose."

Frost pointed right at me, "YOU can understand that Mr. Martin and it's why I chose to help you. What were you, by the way? You don't shoot like a SEAL, you don't have the patience (or aim) of a sniper, and you don't move like a ranger. You do fight like a guy with a lot of experience though, so I'm sure you were combat deployed, and I KNOW the CIA got a hold of you; your planning and attention to detail has "spook" written all over it. You love your traps and explosives too much for infiltration/impersonation work though. I'd guess Army Engineer Corps, sapper probably, and then recruited for wetwork by the CIA." He winked, "Am I close?"

"Essayons!" I responded with the Engineer Corps motto.

He chuckled, "Damn I'm good. You three are why I chose _now_ to make my move. My honor means more to me than any accidental superficial resemblance to the _things_ we hunt; and the existence of people like you three is why I think that this is the time to restore honor to a fallen people. I have taken great joy in killing vampires for the last 350 years, but every kill has been for me, not them. I find it…ironic."

Sam spoke for the first time, "What sustains you? And why is it consuming you?"

Frost paused. "Samuel. You know…I know the least about you of any of this crew, and yet you fascinate me the most. You speak the least and say the most at the same time; and you always ask the best questions. If you wanted a token of my good faith, then here it is: I will tell you what takes a man and turns him into vampire. Ironically, so few of us comprehend or care that it consumes the man in the process."

"We are all ears," Harold said without inflection.

"Every mythology and belief system addresses the paradox of multiple worlds. Heaven, hell, Asgard, Olympus, hell, even string theory. How many of them there are, and what exists in these places is always anybody's guess. I am no theologian and I certainly am not a scientist. But for the sake of my tale, do we all concede that other worlds exist parallel to our own?"

We all looked to Harold. "It is fairly easy to concede that other types of realities may coexist with ours. But the simple fact that they are _other realities_ precludes us from interacting with them. If they follow different rules, then we can't even _perceive _them as a result. It's a weak start, Frost."

"I cannot argue with Harold on that. I am not nearly as well read as he is on the matter." Frost went ahead, "But according to our elders, many thousands of years ago, a magic man of some kind or another managed to open a door into another place. We don't know what he sought, or what type of man he was, but we do know that a denizen of that _other_ place found its way here. It immediately began to die, and in desperation, attached itself to the man, much to the detriment of both. The pair soon discovered that it could stay alive only if the man regularly consumed the blood of living things. To ensure its own survival, the Other made sure the host would be strong enough, and tough enough to secure a steady supply of blood forever. Your first vampire is born, gentlemen. It's not a gift…it's a parasite."

He went on, "The creature is always hungry, and like all living things, it desires to replicate itself. It does not seem to have a personality of its own, but it subverts us, unless we consciously try to control it. The thirst breaks our minds and we lose ourselves into this thing that both empowers us and consumes us at the same time."

Harold looked excited, "It's a stretch, but it does answer a lot of questions, though! It makes sense that it would struggle to exist/survive here. The blood is either a compromise or a metaphor. I would bet Martin's right arm that the real feeding is psychic, not physical, but due to the imperfect nature of the symbiosis, the host has to make the physical act of consumption. Do vampires ever eat flesh, Frost?"

Frost grimaced, "Occasionally, we get a ghoul. We don't know how or why it happens, and we usually destroy them immediately. They eat human, animal or vampire with equal gusto."

"Mutation during replication, I'd guess. How do your other abilities manifest?"

"They are always just extensions of whatever skills you were good at as a human. I could always hide anywhere as a human, now I'm even better at it. I was big fellow before, I'm bigger now." Frost shrugged.

"If this is an extra-dimensional creature, it may have access to energy types we haven't discovered yet. Since these energies probably function unpredictably, vampires would naturally manipulate them along comfortable patterns. It would explain how they can regenerate tissue and expend energy significantly in excess of their apparent consumption"

Frost looked completely bewildered.

Harold began to explain, "When you drive your car, where does the energy come from?"

"Gasoline," Frost replied.

"And when your car is out of gas, what happens?"

"It stops."

"Right! Well, how much energy do you think it takes to propel a 300-pound vampire at 120 miles per hour?"

"I am certain I have no idea!" Frost was starting to get lost, it seemed.

"A damn sight more than you would get out of a few pints of O negative, that you can be sure of! Vampires are _always_ doing things that take enormous amounts of energy. I have never figured out the link between blood and the energy. Blood is an absolutely shitty source of energy. Vampires just don't get enough 'gas' from blood to do the things they do! But it turns out I was looking in the wrong place! It's not the blood…it's the parasite! The parasite needs blood to survive, and as long as it is alive it has access to _another_ energy source. Possibly extra-dimensional, or maybe just a type we haven't discovered yet _here_. It's the classic origin of the concept of magic."

As the tactical member of the group, I had to ask, "This helps us how?"

"Maybe, if I can find that energy source, I can either disrupt it, or at the very least, start harnessing it for us."

Sudden epiphany struck Frost, "My dear Harold…you mean to tell me you intend to discover _magic_?" He boomed that giant laugh of his through the clearing, "Harold…you want to become a _wizard_!"

Even Harold smiled, "That's the cleverest thing you've ever said, Mr. Frost. But you know what I really need?" Harold looked right at Frost, "A vampire to study." He waggled his eyebrows, which made his glasses bounce up and down comically, "How committed are you to our little project, Frost?"

Frost actually looked pale. He shook his head, "You really are a creepy little man, Harold."

Well…at least they weren't bickering any more.


	7. Alaska

It's not like I plan for this shit.

One day I was a dedicated husband and exemplary government employee; and the next I am slogging through the Kobuk Valley National Park in central Alaska chasing undead killers through the endless twilight of the Arctic Circle in late fall. The temperature was a balmy four degrees, with a stiff breeze out of the Northwest. Normally, this would have sent me indoors, but I had work to do here, and like the postal service, a little bad weather would never keep me from my appointed rounds. I have to admit; the armor could be damned warm when worn properly. It's airtight, watertight and windproof. Add one layer of long underwear, and I was fairly comfortable.

I was uncharacteristically chipper this hunt. The winter wonderland around nearly perfectly complimented the kid-on-christmas feeling that was threatening to add a playful skip to my stride.

It had been nearly seven months since I had last hunted and just like that stereotypical youth on a yuletide morn; I had a bunch of new toys. God I love toys. Harold and Frost had spent all winter, spring, and fall researching the energy vampires use to do all those annoying things they do: like run a hundred and fifty miles per hour, or toss cars, or mess with your perceptions. Frost's participation had been reluctant, but he held nothing back and Harold had made great strides in understanding what Sam and I were colloquially calling "magic." Harold called it "non-Newtonian physics;" and it explained how vampires could do things that violated the laws of physics that the rest of us are stuck obeying. Apparently, it had to do with a massless particle from another dimension. Imagine that.

The short version is this: because this particle is moving through a non-measurable (in this reality) dimension, it is by definition breaking our own cosmic speed limit by getting from "point a" to "point b" via inter-dimensional shortcut. When objects in _this_ reality exceed the speed of light, all sorts of things (previously only speculated about by the nerdiest nerds that ever graced a Dungeons and Dragons table) happen. As each superluminal particle (or wave…it's technically both) interacts with matter, it knocks other heretofore undiscovered massless particles off as new and exciting forms of radiation. The end result is exponential quantities of energy released from a minor little reaction.

Harold called the process "cold fission" because very little energy needs to be input to start knocking these particles off. I wanted to call the particles "vampirons" but Harold nixed that. Instead, he decided to call them "Stoker Particles." We figured out that Stoker particles are extremely sensitive to psychic phenomena, and can be manipulated by manipulating the cognitive, sub-conscious, and emotional fluxuations of living creatures. It's why vampires need blood; it's how they develop special abilities, and why some people taste better than others. It has nothing to do with the blood itself, but with the psychic residue of the source of the blood. Stoker particles interact with blood, and the result is blood that is "irradiated" with a certain frequency (flavor) of particle.

The problem in employing these little buggers for our own purposes is that regular humans can't perceive a stoker particle at all. No devices that operate based upon the principles that govern this universe will interact with, or even notice them. Poor Harold had to figure out that seemingly random conditions in this dimension would interact with stoker particles, and that's how he's been studying them. Harold thinks that they leak into our dimension at points where our reality interacts with another. Basically, wherever the laws of physics in that reality are bent to the extent that they sort of resemble ours; sort of the way Newtonian physics become a little inconsistent around black holes in our universe. At these points, both realities exchange particles. Bosuns, photons, and neutrinos go spinning off into the other reality from ours, and Stoker particles come whizzing in from theirs at these points. Places like Stonehenge, Easter Island, and Death Valley are likely examples of such places.

Now vampires are regular people who are saddled with a parasitic lifeform from one of these realities. Because Stoker particles are in short supply here, these creatures have no access to an energy source. Clever creatures that they are, they create it via a complex reaction wherein feeding on living creatures which creates a frequency of Stoker particle radiation that they can use to sustain themselves. This is probably an anthropomorphic statement. There is no evidence at all that the psychic entity that infects a vampire is even sentient. It manifests purely as an insatiable hunger for blood and the ability to perform superhuman feats in the search thereof.

The biggest problem Harold had was even identifying the particle. We can't perceive it, we can only perceive the results of a Stoker particle reaction; and those are many and varied in and of themselves. Some frequencies affect mood, others perceptions, and still others alter the properties of matter itself. Poor Harold had to re-think the scientific method entirely, and his workshop went from bench grinders, lathes, and welding equipment to ancient artifacts, soil from exotic locations, and various animal parts. Then, as he began to understand the nature of the Stoker particle, the grinders and other equipment came back. Ancient ritual blended with modern science in the basement of a shack to produce a new and frightening arsenal of weapons for our crusade.

And what was the end result? My armor was now only a fraction of the weight it was before. Shock batteries were now gone, and their effect was now accomplished by the weave of the coat itself; which would emit an arc of high-energy Stoker particles just as powerful as my batteries. I told Harold if he referred to it as a "+5 cloak of protection" one more time I was going to start calling him "Harry Potter." The reactive gel and ballistic plating was still there, but it was now thinner, lighter, and smarter; it reacted to my situation automatically without immobilizing me. Much of the bulk of the suit was gone, and it was far more comfortable to move in as a result.

The stakers remained, but they would now burn and disrupt vampire regeneration as well, making the weapons far more effective. Now when I staked a vampire, it would at least _stay_ staked for a while.

But that's not the best part. My favorite new toy was the Cestus. Harold could only find enough raw materials to make one of these, but it was a large vambrace and gauntlet that covered my right forearm and knuckles. Essentially it was a loricated plate glove with one-inch spikes over each knuckle. Fabricated from the remains of an old crusader's sword, it would multiply the force of a blow a thousand times, and would withstand just about any force directed against it. We measured my best punch with it against a 14-inch thick sheet of battleship steel. The result (according to Harold's instruments) was about ten mega joules, or the equivalent kinetic-energy transfer of five pounds of C4. Bizarrely, the energy appeared mono-directional, and I suffered no ill effects from the destruction. Harold was careful to caution me that due to the nature of Stoker particles, the weapon's output would fluxuate with my emotional state, so I should watch my temper.

Harold speculated that the original sword must have been an object of incredible power, probably forged by someone very knowledgeable in non-newtonian physics. Very little of the original metal had survived, however, and no matter how much I wanted one, the sword could not be re-forged. Harold picked up the rusty, twisted-metal remains at a museum auction for a relative pittance, ironically, and incorporated pieces of the old sword into a metal glove. Doing so gave the old –war-blade a new life as a weapon against evil, and I liked that. It felt…right… to wield a magic sword against vampires. It appealed to my sense of poetry.

Big Daddy was by my side, as usual. I expected Harold to want to scrap it for something more exotic, like a magical uzi or something, but because of my emotional attachment to the weapon, Harold felt that it was the strongest candidate of all my weapons for "magical" modifications. Because it was something I had created and cared deeply for, it would have the most dramatic effect on the particles; thus maximizing any offensive potential the gun would reap from Stoker particle radiation. In that vein, Big Daddy had been modified with one small piece of the same sword that the Cestus was made of. A small rusted metal triangle set into the grip was the only change that was made, but as long as I was committed to my cause, and striking with full conviction, Big Daddy would do the rest. Even Harold was unsure what the big revolver would do under battlefield conditions. The only thing we knew for sure was that bullets from Big Daddy now burned with blue eldritch fire, and were hitting with far more power than ever before.

So basically, it was Martin Mark II on the prowl in the frozen wilderness of the far north. Frost was also on this hunt, and we were stalking a group of five young vamps that had been feeding on hunters and making it look like grizzly attacks. Frost was particularly cranky with this group, as he was a fan of grizzly bears. Apparently, he like do feed on them because of the challenge they represented. It seems that even vampires respect 3000 pound carnivores that can decapitate you with a single swat.

Previously, five vampires would be a huge challenge. But with Frost on the hunt, and all the new equipment, we figured this would be a fairly simple matter to deal with. The remote location was ideal, since we weren't sure how all the equipment would work, and we sure as hell did not want to get caught in the field. It felt good to be elevating my game. I had been content to pick off the weak and stupid vamps one at a time for a few years, but now I was starting to do real damage.

It had started out well. We set up a fake hunting camp and pretended to be normal guys having a good time. Frost heard the Vamps coming, and thanks to a decent snowfall, the first one failed to smell it and stepped on a mine; blowing his leg off below the knee. Frost immediately fell on one opponent and began tearing him limb from limb, whereupon two of his buddies leapt to his aid. Frost was no slouch, but he was now in a running battle with three vampires and he appeared to have his hands full. This left one fresh one for me and one bleeding and regenerating in the snow.

The fresh one ran up to me, and startlingly, did not slam into me. Instead, it grabbed me by the throat and squeezed. My new armor exceeded all expectations; the gel swam up to the gorget of its own accord and protected my throat without cutting off my blood or air. The vampire looked confused for a second, and that's all the time I needed to slam the Cestus under his arm into the ribs on his left side. There was a "thump!" that shook the ground, and my assailant crumpled limply to the ground, gasping and gurgling. I did not hesitate for one moment, and brought the Cestus down twice more on his skull. His head collapsed in a bloody mess, and he slumped facedown, pouring crimson into the snow like oil from a broken hurricane lamp.

I was just drawing Big Daddy to finish off the one-legged vamp in the snow when things went very wrong very fast. As I pulled the trigger, wreathing the downed creature in crackling blue energy that ripped a hellish scream from his gullet and disintegrated a full quarter of his torso; Frost came streaking out of the tree line covered in blood, which I (correctly) presumed was not his. He stopped in front of me and simply said "More coming. It's a trap!" This would normally be considered very ill news indeed, but Frost was wearing the most beatific feral grin on his face as he said it. I think the big bastard was relishing this! I know the type; born fighters who only experience true joy in the face of an unbeatable opponent.

I did not have to wait long, from the woods came no less than ten vampires, emerging like so many frost giants from the dark and snow with a solemn inexorable grace. Frost could probably outrun them, but I was definitely screwed.

One vampire stepped forward. A big sonofabitch with long blond hair and a handlebar mustache, he nearly matched Frost's stature, but without Frost's irreverence. If Frost was a panther, this guy was a bear. My suspicions were confirmed when he spoke, and the hint of a Nordic accent was audible as he boomed across the clearing at us.

"Oi, Frost!" he called from his side of the clearing, "We don't see you up here too often, brother! I heard you were keeping strange company these days, but _him_? Tsk tsk, boy!"

"Strange days are here, my friend; big changed are coming. For the better!" Frost smirked a little, perhaps he already knew what the big guy was thinking, "Things are different now. You really don't need to do this. I should think that you above all others would understand what has to happen, now. You can be part of the future, if you want too," Frost replied evenly. The vamps were spreading out in a line, trying to cover our flanks. It was oddly tactical for vampires; this guy and his group were different. Wonderful.

The blonde giant shrugged and snorted, "Frost, you know better than that. This machine is too big for a little monkey wrench like you and the runt there to break it. I really thought he'd be bigger, you know. The elders seem to think he is some sort of _berserker_ or demon or some other nightmare. He looks like a little man with a leather fetish to me." He laughed at his own joke. Man, I hate that.

"He is full of surprises, Erik. If you underestimate him, he will kill you. Trust me, I know." I'm glad Frost had all this confidence in me. At that moment I was looking at ten adult, organized, and cautious vampires attempting a classic envelopment maneuver. There was a lot of new data to process here, and I was not feeling very optimistic.

"Rafael Velasquez, Marcus Antonio, and Jeannie Burns all found out the hard way, Erik. Don't be foolish. This is the future, my brother. Honor is going to be returned to our people, even if that means there will be only a few of us left to receive it."

"Honor is where you find it, Frost. Little man should have killed Antonio when he brought down the blood bank. He was sufficiently enraged to arrange this little encounter, and he spared no expense, I assure you. There is much honor in doing the job you were paid to do, Frost. I thought you would understand that better; but apparently you do not." The big Norske shrugged again, "Future or no, brother, I have a job to do. You have betrayed your own kind, Frost, there will be no reprieve. You come as my prisoner, or stay as a corpse. Either way the runt dies. Make your choice."

"I have betrayed nothing Erik. If you understood me at all you would have realized that by now. A moment, if you would?"

He laughed, "For you my brother, a moment I give."

Frost turned to me, "This is going to be interesting. Erik wouldn't be here if he hadn't done some reconnaissance, so he will know about your old tricks. He probably watched the scuffle we just had, so he will be aware of some of the new things, but he is not a thinker so he won't have worked out how to handle them." Frost's forehead crinkled, "He knows me well enough to bring ten friends, but he will be unsure about you. I think I can take him, but I don't think you can handle ten vamps on your own. So you will have to take him."

I wondered if Frost could sense my raised eyebrows under the helmet, "Can _you_ take ten vamps on your own?"

He chuckled, "Probably not…but I can distract them and even outrun them if I have too. You can't do that. Be very careful with Erik. He is one of three or four non-elder vampire creatures on this planet that make me very nervous, Martin. He is almost a thousand years old, by far the oldest you've ever fought, so he will be very durable and very strong. He will want to fight you straight up though. Like all Vikings, he is not fancy or clever when he fights, but he is relentless and aggressive."

"Remember what Harold said. The armor and weapons will respond to your emotions and desires, so just stay focused and I am sure you will be fine." He smirked his lopsided little smirk, "Just do what you do, Martin. Make them fear the dark again. I will keep the others busy for as long as I can. Then you will have to help me or I will have to flee. Got it?"

"Got it. Shall we dance?"

"Lay it on thick, Martin. We need to create some fear. We will have to try to leave some of the others alive to flee, just to spread the terror."

Great. I don't really do drama, but what the hell? Right?

Like a football team breaking huddle, we turned to face the host of enemies before us.

"Erik, is it?" I started in, trying to lift lines from all the tough guys I could remember in film and literature, "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Martin, and I kill vampires. Don't take it personally, big guy, but you seem to be kind of a big deal. Good. I'm kind of a big deal myself."

I started to walk towards him. Big Daddy was still clenched in my right hand, but I did not think I'd get it raised in time, so I let it hang. With every step closer I took, the circle of vampires closed in on me, an ever-tightening ring converging on predator and prey simultaneously. Frost hung back, chuckling to himself.

"You see, Erik, I don't buy into the whole 'immortality' mythos you parasites squawk about. I've killed just about everything there is to kill and I got news for you buddy: You aren't immortal. You are just hard to kill, like a hippo, or a cockroach. If you take away the silly superstition and bad rhetoric, guys like you are just another big game animal to hunt." I grinned my sickest grin, "You really ought to check out my trophy room some time."

"Now me? I am not immortal, but I am many other things. I like to go with 'inexorable' and 'unstoppable' personally, but maybe I'm just bragging." I shrugged, "It doesn't matter, anyway. You are the same, arrogant, swaggering, ego-maniac I have killed two dozen times already. The names and faces change, but you are all the same. Every one of you thinks that you can just walk over me and get on with this freakish masquerade you creatures call 'life.' Every one of you is wrong."

"You don't scare me, you don't impress me, you don't even ruin my day. I was born to kill things like you; I am anathema, I am legend. And I am coming for you Blondie."

Ego is a funny thing. When you have spent a thousand years being feared and respected, you start to expect it all the time; and when some insignificant little pissant insults you in front of your friends, you get pissed off. Erik was starting to look a little cranky; so I pushed on. I stopped eight feet in front of him, and looked (way up!) into his eyes. I reached down inside myself and found that cold knot of pure rage that lived at the bottom of my soul. It was born the night she died, and would always be there. For a long time I took comfort in it, because it was my fuel and my raison d'être. It's what kept going on these insane hunts, and kept me safe from most vampires' psychic influence. Her last gift to me was an inner strength and fire that confounded even the creatures that inhabit nightmares. It was a powerful weapon, and now it fueled both spirit and arms.

I know Erik felt it. I could tell that whatever his vampire senses were attuned to, they could tell that I was not like the others. Though his predator's heart would never admit it, and his façade would never show it, he was afraid. The moment I realized that that my conviction and rage could make a thousand-year-old vampire cringe, the Cestus came alive in response, and arcs of blue fire leapt from the gauntlet's spikes and surfaces in a crackling dance of energy barely restrained. I felt a hundred feet tall, and completely unstoppable.

"How many humans have killed, Erik? What is the balance on your ledger? How much do you owe?"

I don't know what frequency of Stoker particle transmits pure malice, but Erik was pumping them out big time. He might be afraid of what I represented, but he was an honest –to-goodness Viking and he was not going to back down for anything. He positively seethed with contained hate at this point. It was almost a comical sight, if not for his sheer destructive potential. He spoke through gritted teeth, and his voice was a boulder grinding smaller stones into dust, "Little leather-man, I have killed more humans than you will ever know. I do not care what little tricks you are hiding under your ridiculous coat and your silly fetish gear. I am going to kill and eat you and keep your Halloween costume as a souvenir." The big vampire's voice simultaneously boomed and snarled. He seemed to grow even larger as he loomed over me, and the tension on his face was palpable. The air between us seemed to thicken with the expectation of impending mayhem. Even Erik's retinue seemed transfixed by the tableau, ten pairs of black eyes mesmerized by the struggle about to begin.

And that is when Frost made his move.

The vampire on the far left edge of the echelon slumped headless to the snow with an audible "pop!" and a spray of blood. In that instant all the built-up tension in the world seemed to coalesce into frenzied activity; and things got very out of hand very quickly.

A veteran of a thousand battles (I presumed) Erik reacted with the speed of an experienced warrior, wasting no time in punching me square in the jaw. This momentarily stunned me, and sent me hurtling across the clearing like a tumbling black-clad crash test dummy. The blow should have killed me outright, but the armor did its job flawlessly, and despite a sound wallop to the Gulliver, I skidded to a stop in the snow more or less un-killed. I was going to have a headache though, I'll tell you that for free.

Since he probably presumed me dead, Erik immediately went for Frost who, despite acquitting himself very well, was obviously in trouble. Watching vampires fight was difficult, because of how fast they moved. I couldn't help but notice that while they could cover distance quickly, once they were close they had to slow down to strike blows or grapple. No time to speculate about that now, though. Frost was out-striking his enemies three to one, but with ten opponents he was aggregating damage to himself very quickly. He was a whirlwind in action, despite the fact that he was being overwhelmed. Each of his blows sent a vampire hurtling into the woods, only to have it return at speed to re-enter the fray. His blows sounded like a twelve-pound splitting maul hitting green hickory, heavy and loud as he pummeled vampire bones into powder. Despite his producing a verifiable maelstrom of mayhem, it was a holding action at best, and it was obvious that he would need respite very soon.

As I picked myself up, Erik entered the brawl and very quickly Frost went under a mass of flying fists and feet as the thousand-year-old war machine added his considerable might to the already overwhelming quantity of opposition. This gave me a rare opportunity, though. Because the vamps were all piled up trying to subdue the still-fighting Frost, they were relatively simple to hit with bullets. That was a nice switch. I hauled Big Daddy up to eye level and snapped off three rounds in rapid succession. The results were incredible. With a sound like thunder, and a percussion that shook the very air itself, blue explosions ripped ragged dinner-plate-sized holes completely _through_ vampire bodies. The impacts threw blood, bone, and gore thirty feet into the air and ripped inhuman screams from those vamps that still had lungs and/or throats. The dogpile collapsed as Frost seized his opportunity to burst outward and drag a screaming vampire into the woods at what had to be a hundred miles an hour.

"GET HIM! DO NOT LET HIM ESCAPE!" Erik yelled to his minions and came at me like fanged freight train. I had just enough time to throw my arm up and get the coat between the hurtling death express and my still throbbing noggin; and I was rewarded by another explosion of blue fire and the sound of dense flesh smacking into a tree. I quickly ascertained (because I'm a clever guy)that the coat had reflected the energy of Erik's charge back at him and sent him into a nearby red oak with enough force to crack the trunk and send snow unceremoniously cascading down over the felled vampire. I realized that for myself, I had not moved at all. This was very surprising, as I was accustomed to getting knocked all over the place when vampires charged me. I am no physicist, but it appeared that the coat had reflected _all_ the kinetic energy of the charge back at the assailant. That was a nice touch I'd have to tell Harold about.

Bemused speculation notwithstanding, Erik was up already and he was _mad_. He barely appeared human; his face was so contorted by rage. Normally I cultivate this anger, because it made them careless, but Erik was more than a little terrifying. He came at me more slowly this time, obviously still in control of himself despite being in the grips of a homicidal fury. This is why the old ones are so hard to hunt; they maintain their presence of mind even under duress.

I snapped off another round, which he dodged with practiced ease and closed distance to grab my throat, "Nice trick, little one. I will tell of it to my friends for centuries."

He lifted me off the ground and began to squeeze my neck. I don't know what he expected, but the Stoker-irradiated gel appeared to be up to the task, because I felt no more than mild pressure. I dropped Big Daddy and fired three right hooks into his ribs with the Cestus and was rewarded with the dull "thump!" of a muffled explosion and a cry of surprise from the big Viking. WIthotu my feet planted, the blows landed with far less force than I would have liked, but the Cestus made up for the difference. He dropped me and I landed on my feet, and without hesitation I smashed the Cestus into his mid-section, which propelled him across the clearing with another colossal "thump!" I could see that his ribs were smashed, and he was in great pain, for he got up a lot more slowly this time.

Frost chose that moment to reappear, with four vamps in hot pursuit. He looked ragged and his right arm hung limply.

"Little help here, Martin?" He was attempting to appear stoic, but he was a creature at the end of his rope. He caught one assailant with his good arm and pitched him into the staggering form of Erik, sending them both down again.

I charged another, which appeared amused at my temerity, and when he reached out to grab me I juked to the left and drove an overhand right into his chin. It seemed silly that a classic, first-lesson boxing trick would work, but most vampires are entirely reliant on their superhuman abilities in a fight, and are otherwise pretty poor brawlers.

I must have swung pretty hard, because the Cestus blew the vampire's head into a pink mist of brain matter and bone shrapnel; and the rest of the husk slumped limply into the snow. Another vampire immediately grabbed me by the coat and flung me away with absolutely no thought to my dignity whatsoever. Being saddled with only human reflexes and reaction times was a huge liability in this business. These battles developed faster than I could process, and we were losing control of this one. I came to rest against a tree and tried to steal a moment to assess our situation.

Frost was contending with three vampires and Erik, and it was bad. He managed to crush the pelvis of one with a blow from his good left arm, but Erik and the other two fell on him and began tearing at him and landing horrific bludgeoning blows that shook the ground itself. Frost snarled and thrashed, but Erik drove his hand into Frost's chest and tore out a great, bloody gobbet of viscera and threw off to the side. Frost slumped unconscious, all the fight out of him while he tried to regenerate.

Frost was not my friend. We were not bosom buddies with shared adventures growing up together. He wasn't on my Christmas card list and I found his sense of humor annoying. But this was a mission and he was on my team. Nobody fucks with my team. Nobody gets left behind. On my team, there are no dead heroes. I leapt up with a snarl. Deep in that cold place inside me, an ember began to glow. As the three remaining mobile vampires turned to look at me I saw the same blank, confused arrogance that they all had when the food got uppity. Had they learned nothing? What does it take for these stupid, supercilious, oblivious freaks to learn something? How many do I have to destroy before they start figuring out that there is more to a man than the blood in his veins?

I fanned the ember with thoughts of my wife, of Harold's family, of Sam's. I thought of all the people I didn't save, of all the times I wasn't good enough. I even thought of Frost, who had joined my team for the sake of honor, and who trusted me as a fellow warrior. By the time Erik turned to meet me, my entire right arm was completely ablaze in neon blue, so bright that it tinted the snow azure for thirty feet around me. I felt entirely fueled by righteous fury, and the Cestus was singing to me in a symphony of wild contradictions: Rage and justice, violence and compassion, love and destruction all woven into a cacophony of righteous bloodshed forthcoming. It was a marvelous feeling.

Erik reached for me with a hand still covered in Frost's blood and I made no pretense to defend myself. I leapt straight for him. Erik had learned to avoid the Cestus and dodged easily, but he had misjudged my intent. I sailed past him and let the force of my swing carry me into his remaining henchmen. I planted my right foot firmly and pivoted hard to my left, delivering a tremendous blow to one of them.

My arm proscribed a blazing blue arc and the resulting blow tore the top half of the vampire completely away from the lower, and blew the entire mass into the woods further than I could follow visually. I instantly spun and swung the Cestus in an overhand smash that rendered another vampire into pieces so small that they could not easily be identified. The third henchman took off into the woods without a backward glance and I found myself face to fist with Erik's right hand.

The blow, probably delivered with all the force he could muster sent me across the clearing again, but something was different this time. My head stayed clear and I was able to land with some semblance of grace, and without injury. Things seemed to slow, and the world appeared to freeze in time around me while Erik sprinted across the clearing toward me. Erik was the only thing moving all of a sudden, and I realized that my sense of time had dilated to the point where the world seemed to be still, and Erik's superhuman running speed appeared only slightly faster than normal. The ramifications of this were staggering, but I had no time to ponder them as I met Erik in the middle of the clearing. My stomach lurched as my brain struggled to make sense of the temporal distortion, but I found that if I concentrated, I could almost match Erik's speed. Soon we were locked in a frantic struggle, but a much more evenly matched one than he anticipated.

I had been training to fight since I was eleven years old. Bare hands, guns, knives, sticks, rocks, or whatever you please, I had studied them all. On the other hand, Erik was a thousand-year-old Viking, and a veteran of countless battles. I found myself employing everything I knew just to keep up with the relentless, unending frontal assault Erik was pushing. He had learned to avoid the Cestus, and my other blows were akin to a 3-year-pld slapping a professional boxer. I was tiring, and he would never tire. This could end badly. Erik managed to land another thundering blow to my mid section, and while the armor prevented me from experiencing the joy of exploding internal organs, I was again propelled to the edge of the clearing.

Erik was on me instantly when inspiration struck. Well. Erik struck, and inspiration saved me. As his blow streaked towards me, my old boxer's instincts took over and I slipped his punch to the left and it landed on my shoulder: which my coat was covering. The coat did exactly what it was supposed to do when a heavy blow landed on it. All the energy of Erik's blow was reflected back into his fist, shattering it and throwing his hand back and unbalancing the big Viking.

Summoning all my rage, I drove the Cestus overhand into Erik's face. The gauntlet was unrecognizable at this point, completely consumed by rage and determination, the glove burned so brilliantly it hurt the eyes to look at it. Erik's face collapsed in a spray of gore and he hurtled to the ground with enough force to cause a tremor. I did not wait for him to rise. I did not care anymore about reason, or futures, or the war, I cared only for the mission, and for retribution. I ran to where Erik was trying to rise, his head hideously malformed now, and with no sign of healing any time soon. I jumped as high as I could, raising the Cestus over my head, and brought it crashing down on Erik's chest with all my weight and all my fury.

I might have overdone it a bit. I don't know if I consciously fed the gauntlet all that anger, or if the Cestus itself drew it out of me, but the resulting explosion blew a crater twenty feet across, six feet deep and more or less completely annihilated Erik the thousand-year-old Viking. When my ears stopped ringing and the smoke cleared, I was seated in the bottom of the aforementioned pit somewhat bewildered. I felt oddly drained, enervated, like I had been awake for two days straight without food or water. I was very tired.

Frost's sandy blonde head peaked over from the top of the crater. His voice was weak, but he still managed to convey his characteristic banal good humor, "That was some show! You really should watch your temper there, Martin. Someone could get hurt."

"You gonna live, Frosty?"

"It appears so, Martin."

"Damn, and here I thought today was going to be a good day."

Frost laughed until he coughed blood, "You wound me, Martin. I shall tell Harold when we get back that you were mean to me. We're quite good friends now."

"He threatened to kill you twice last week alone!" I countered as I dragged myself from the hole.

"That's a lot less than usual though, you must admit…"

"Yeah, I guess so," I had to concede, "Let's get a pyre started so we can get out of here."


End file.
